


Dark Skies Looming Over

by esotericfallacy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Drama, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Prostitution, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericfallacy/pseuds/esotericfallacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is a jaded, cynical man who sees the world in shades of gray, until troubled Luke stumbles into his life and inadvertently drags him into a bizarre, twisted place full of things Adam never believed could exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP that I've had going for a while and am trying to stick with. Eventually I'd like to have multiple fics going, but this is what I have for now. The story is completely original, as I was urged to post here regardless of that fact; however, I hope it's enjoyed nonetheless, or at least read!
> 
> If you like the story and wish to be added to my mailing list, please let me know by sending me your e-mail address in a comment or personal message. Thank you!

***

The world was ending. At least it looked that way to Adam. Some time between a dinner of leftover top ramen and a 5:00am cup of stale coffee, the heavens had torn in two and unleashed a storm of biblical proportions onto Wyrmwold Flats. Its citizens were remarkably unprepared, despite the fact that the sky had been marred with bloated rain clouds for three days, and they reacted as if they'd never seen water fall from up above. Traffic had slowed to walking speed all around the city, businesses were closing several hours early, and people nearly knocked one another over rushing to their cars with jackets and newspapers held over their heads. The sane ones spent the day indoors.

So maybe there wasn't fire and ash raining from the sky, and the ground wasn't opening up to swallow screaming victims, but the storm sure as hell felt like one of the deadly plagues. All along the road, the feeble city trees thrashed in the wind, pelted by garbage as it blew by. The telephone poles weaved dangerously above the people wading through ankle-high puddles beneath them. Lights flickered, threatening to go out in protest; even the buildings themselves seemed to lean and slump indignantly. Somewhere in the city, some old guy had to be building an ark.

It didn't matter that Adam had an umbrella. It was about as useful as being armed with a fork in a den of lions. There was no way he could keep himself dry when the water was coming at him from all directions like an aquatic battalion. But Adam stubbornly held the umbrella up like it was making a difference and ignored the way it tended to bend back with the wind in surrender.

All morning it had stormed like this. He'd woken to the sound of drops like marbles against his window, a glorious greeting on one of Adam's _favorite_ days of the year. Ideally he'd be inside now, lounged on the couch, vegging out like any normal human being would on their one day off in over a week. At the very least, he should have slept half of the day away. But as luck would have it, he'd had other obligations. Not really something he could have gotten out of. Sure was a hell of a day for his car to be in the shop, though.

With a bitterness even the endless downpour couldn't rival, Adam struggled to light a cigarette, resting the handle of the umbrella on his shoulder. Rain drops maneuvered beneath the slick barrier, smacking Adam's face in defiance as he struggled to keep the flame of his lighter from blowing out. "Fuck it all," he mumbled around the butt held firmly between his lips. It was just one of those days. A bolt of lightning was bound to tear through the clouds any moment now and strike him dead.

Soggy, brown locks of hair fell into Adam's eyes as he finally managed to catch his miraculously dry cigarette ablaze. He swatted them away, rubbing his nose before shoving his lighter back into his pocket. As Adam passed a closed shop, he was startled by his own reflection in the window. He looked like the sort of guy you'd cross the street to avoid: disheveled and unshaven, soaking wet and flushed to boot. His eyes, typically green and bright, looked murky and sunken in with not just the weather to blame. Luckily the few others on the street were too busy trying to stay dry to pay him any mind. Who was he trying to impress, anyway?

Adam dared a glance at the sky, trying to avoid any ocular damage at the hands of the vengeful rain. It was dark, but somewhere behind those thick clouds the moon was almost full. Two more days, if he recalled correctly. Not like it mattered. Not to anyone but creatures of the night and occult fanatics. Or little boys who couldn't shake the old superstitions of their childhoods, no matter how they tried.

He smiled, bitterly. It had been a full moon this very evening exactly seven years ago. He remembered because the sky had been so beautiful and clear, even in the middle of September. Sometimes Adam wondered if it was the state of the moon that had triggered the events that followed that night. He knew damn well he hadn't been the only one who couldn't let go of the past.

That didn't really matter, though, did it? It was like all of those people debating about life and death: what happens afterward, what happened before it all existed? Once a person was dead, asking questions wouldn't change a damn thing. They were gone. No amount of "answers" could make it better.

Adam chuckled, despite himself. What a bitter old man. Over the hill at 28. If only _he_ could see him now. But hell, at least the walk from the cemetery got shorter every year. Over half a decade and the day never got any easier. But at least it was only a few minutes to home. In the beginning, it had been an eternity.

A ridiculous amount of relief rushed over Adam as his building appeared up ahead. He took a long drag of his cigarette, cursing out-loud when a drop of water tried to sabotage him. "Do you think maybe I could just have my nicotine fix without someone trying to piss on my--"

The words died on his lips as Adam turned sharply toward the stairs of his apartment complex, stopping in his tracks. Like a sack of bricks, an inexplicable wave of emotion struck his chest, nearly causing him to drop his cigarette. At the top of the steps, a young man was huddled beneath the canopy that hung above the entrance. By the look of him, it hadn't been much of a shelter. And here Adam had thought _he_ was soaking wet. Compared to the kid, Adam was a living model of the Sahara Desert. And for whatever reason, he couldn't do anything but stare.

For a moment, Adam didn't exhale. There was nothing particularly striking about the boy--pretty but in an average kind of way with a soft face that made him a little androgynous. However, even drenched like that, his features were sort of... ethereal. Hair so blond it was almost white; full, pink lips; long, feminine lashes. And something else. Something that Adam couldn't put his finger on.

The boy coughed, and Adam jumped, realizing he'd been gawking. Their eyes met, and Adam was startled by the coldness in the young man's gaze. "Er... um...." he began, clearing his throat. "You're uh... blocking my way."

The kid didn't respond immediately, just stared blankly as if he hadn't heard. But before Adam could repeat himself, the boy was up, arms folded around his body. Without protest, he headed down the stairs and back into the rain. Adam watched him, his stomach beginning to knot. Now that he could see him better, it seemed the kid wasn't an angel after all. He was young, likely no older than 18, but he looked hard-bitten. The clothing he wore was rumpled and stained--tattered jeans full of holes; a thin shirt, barely a shield from the elements and torn in several places. Even his shoes appeared worn and useless as they sloshed across the flooded sidewalk. And now, with the aid of the street lights, Adam could see a series of strange welts along the young man's throat. Bruises? Had someone... strangled him?

Adam's throat tightened. A strange feeling, something other than pity, gripped him all at once. What was this, intuition? Collin used to talk about it all the time, but Adam had always written it off. Fate and divine intervention and spiritual connections--that was all a load of crap developed by frightened people who wanted to find meaning in their pathetic little lives. Ridiculous, he'd called it. Only now...

"Hey kid!" Adam was calling out before he realized what he was doing, and when the boy looked back, he froze for an unnatural amount of time.

“Uh...” He wracked his brain, grasping for anything to explain the sudden outburst. “I mean, um, were you... were you waiting for someone out here?"

"...I was just trying to stay dry."

"Oh."

Adam swallowed, guilt rising in his gut. It was stupid to talk to someone he didn't know in this part of the city, even some kid; but Adam felt a tug in his chest that made turning and walking away very difficult. What was wrong with him? Was he feeling vulnerable because of this particular anniversary? Or was it something else? Something he recognized, maybe. The boy was a stranger, but Adam had a feeling he knew his story.

"...Do you... need somewhere to go?"

The boy took a while to reply, as if, yet again, he hadn't heard the question. A bitter, pained expression crossed his face so briefly Adam wasn't sure it had even been there. Then he nodded.

Trying to mask his nervous, indecisive inner argument with disinterest, Adam gestured at the building. "...You can... come up if you want."

Yeah, he was crazy for offering. There was no doubt about that, taking in some weird, scruffy kid with wounds that suggested he might be caught up in a great deal of trouble. But that was precisely why Adam couldn't just leave the brat in the rain to end up frozen or worse. What would happen to him if he were left to fend for himself that evening?

Adam had never been a particularly kind or reliable person. He'd done a lot of wrong in his life, let a lot of people down. Today was a painful reminder of that, and maybe the unwanted memories were clouding his judgment. Or maybe he was driven by the memories themselves. Either way, this date marked the seventh anniversary of the hardest lesson Adam had ever had to learn. Even if it was just the one time, he wasn't going to turn his back on a kid in need. He'd be damned if he was going to repeat that same mistake on this day of all days. To hell with reason.

*

It was a short trek to Adam's apartment on the third floor, but the trip seemed longer under the circumstances. Neither of them spoke, and the hallway was eerily silent but for their echoed footsteps. A million scenarios and questions raced through Adam's mind as he dug around in his pocket for his keys, but he didn't bother tossing any of them at the young man. He doubted he'd get far trying to figure out what the boy was thinking, and when Adam did dare a glance, it didn't look like he was thinking much of anything. The kid's eyes were distant and glassy, and it occurred to Adam a little belatedly that he was probably on something.

Oh well. No turning back now.

Adam fumbled with the house key, nearly dropping it more than once before he finally managed to unlock the door and push it open for his guest.

"Uh, go on in," he said, glancing back at the kid.

Though he didn't return Adam's gaze, the boy did as he was told and took a few steps into the sparsely furnished apartment. The wall parallel to the door was primarily made up of long, rectangular windows, casting the room in a hazy glow despite the storm. Adam flipped the light switch, and the shadows were chased away, revealing a large, blue couch directly in front of them. There was a fold out bed inside, partially made up with sheets that were probably a little musty by now. A dining table and a chair were pressed up against the window. An identical chair sat in the far corner, holding up a slightly wilted potted plant. But for a picture or two, the walls were blank. Adam's most recent ex had bugged him about decorating, but Adam had always preferred simplicity. The place was clean. That was good enough for him. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as "homey."

"You can take a shower if you want," Adam offered, tossing his coat onto the couch. He glanced over to find the boy staring at a silver framed picture that he kept next to his phone.

Adam cleared his throat. "Um... towels are in there already."

The boy looked up but didn't make eye contact. Instead, he nodded and headed for the bathroom in the direction Adam had gestured, his old, worn shoes flapping mournfully behind him.

Adam waited until the kid was out of sight, then let out a long breath. Yep, he was definitely crazy. Would this end with something unpleasant? Robbery? Assault? He tried to rationalize the unlikelihood of the boy really doing him harm, as it didn't look like he had a weapon, and if worse came to worst, Adam was fairly certain he was stronger. But there was always the chance that this could blow up in his face. It was true often enough that no good deed went unpunished.

Regardless, he'd told the boy he could stay, and even Adam wasn't that much of an asshole to toss him out immediately after. For whatever reason, be it overconfidence, good judgment, or that weird sensation he'd had before, he didn't think he had anything to worry about. It was probably a good thing that he was contemplating the potential downsides to having the boy in his apartment--it meant his self-preservation hadn't completely malfunctioned--but as he listened to the shower running in the other room, he let those thoughts fade to the back of his mind.

At any rate, he was exhausted and ready to wind down. A glance at the clock confirmed his suspicions: it was pretty damn late. Probably too late for dinner, but Adam had a feeling that any person who looked like that boy did had to be hungry. Of course, he wasn't really prepared for company, but he had to have a box of macaroni or something lying around. Nothing special, but it would be warm, and most likely edible. Besides, he doubted the kid would be too picky. And if he was... well, then he didn't have to eat it.

When the food was done, Adam set it on the table and tossed the pot into the sink. While he waited for the boy to finish his shower, he pulled out the fold-out bed and made it up with some old blankets his grandmother had given him. They'd been in the closet so long, he was surprised they were still intact, but they were warm and that was what mattered. Better than the rain.

As he aired out the linens, Adam thought back to the strange marks on the boy's throat. There were only so many things that could have caused that kind of bruising, and obviously the kid hadn't done it to himself. Adam had considered calling the police, but that idea was bashed by the distinct memory of his own domestic violence disputes. The system was flawed as hell. Calling the police might only make things worse. After all, he had no idea what the kid was involved with, and he figured there had to be a reason why he hadn't gone to the police already.

 _Why._ His imagination wasted no time supplying him with a heap of colorful answers. He doubted the boy would confirm or deny any of Adam's suspicions, but that didn't stop him from feeling that nervous, anxious, nagging feeling that insisted he had to find out. Who was this kid? Why was he on Adam's stoop of all places? Where had he been headed? In the grand scheme of things, they weren't important questions. Or at least, they weren't any of Adam's business. The kid would be gone by morning, and it wouldn't matter anymore. But it bugged him just a little that he'd probably never find out.

At any rate, there was no point pushing for details if they weren't offered in the first place. Getting even a simple answer out of the boy was difficult enough.

Adam was about to throw one last blanket over the fold out bed, when he was startled by movement out of the corner of his eye. The boy was standing in the doorway, a towel around his body, his hair hanging loose and wet, but no longer streaked with dirt.

"Oh," Adam said, surprised. "Ah, crap, sorry. You probably need something clean to wear, right?"

The kid didn't answer or move, his gaze locked on Adam's chest.

"I, uh, have some clothes, but they're probably gonna be big on you. I can dry yours in the meantime, though. I don't have a washing mach--"

When the boy pushed away from the wall, Adam's offer froze on his lips. The kid walked toward him abruptly, and before Adam could speak, he opened the towel and let it fall to the floor. Adam's heart caught in his throat as his eyes immediately dropped to the boy's slender body.

"Uh... uh, you... uh..."

His expression unchanging, the kid stopped in front of Adam, their bodies inches apart. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and firmly grasped the buckle of Adam's pants. A jolt of arousal shot through his body and Adam inhaled so sharply he nearly stumbled backward. The boy's fingers brushed Adam's skin, and shocks danced across his belly making it difficult to breathe. All he could see were soft lips, glistening skin, a smooth, pink tongue.

Nimble fingers worked the button before going for Adam's zipper. He felt his pants begin to slide off his hips, and faster than Adam could react, the boy was already dropping to his knees. Strands of hair tickled Adam's skin, right before hot breath washed over now exposed flesh. Hot breath that suggested the inside of that mouth would be even hotter...

All at once, Adam snapped to attention, grabbing the kid by his shoulders and pushing him back.

"Stop," he panted. "What are you doing?"

The boy remained on his knees, staring up at Adam, blankly.

"...Thought that's why you invited me up."

Adam swallowed, watching those moist, full lips move as the boy spoke.

"No," he forced out. "No, that's not why."

Adam's hands were shaking and he found he couldn't let go of the boy's shoulders, nor could he look away from that soft, supple skin, gleaming from the moisture, beads of water trickling over the curve of his throat.

"...It's free," the boy said. "The shower or whatever is enough to cover the charge."

"No!” Adam said, firmly. “No, kid, seriously. That's not what I'm after."

The boy didn't move, growing confusion filling his eyes. "...That's all I have. I don't have any money."

"No, no, this is a misunderstanding," Adam said. "I wasn't trying to..."

He looked into the kid's eyes and tightened his jaw before finally letting go. Turning away from the boy, he quickly pulled up and fastened his pants. "Look, I just wanted to offer you a place to stay and something to eat. That's it. I swear."

Adam snatched the extra blanket from the back of the couch where he'd dropped it and wrapped it around the boy's body before helping him to his feet. "I'll grab you something to wear, okay? Uh, there's... there's food on the table. Eat it if you're hungry. I'll uh, I'll be right back."

The bewilderment on the boy's face shifted into something slightly more... incredulous. But Adam was already heading for the bedroom as fast as he could go without sprinting. He dug around in his drawers for a while, as long as it took for his heart rate to slow, then grabbed the first thing he could find that might be close to the kid's size. An old shirt and shorts that had shrunk a little in the wash. They may not be a perfect fit, but it was better than... what the kid had on at the moment.

When he returned to the living room, the boy was at the table, practically inhaling his dinner. It was actually a little startling to see someone sitting there again. Adam didn't even eat at the table anymore. The light that hung overhead cast a shadow over the boy that made it difficult to see the hard, suspicious expression etched on his face. From that angle, he looked quite a bit younger than Adam had previously suspected. Regardless, he caught himself staring again and quickly looked away. Adam really needed to get laid if he was getting this worked up over a little boy.

He cleared his throat and set the clothing on the table. "Here, for when you're finished."

The boy looked at the shorts and shirt but said nothing.

"Hope it tastes all right," Adam said, not expecting a response and not receiving one. He turned back to the kitchen and started washing out the pot he'd used to make the food, letting the burn of the hot water ground him. His thoughts were all over the place, and it was taking more effort than usual to organize them.

God, he wanted a drink.

"Do you keep your door locked?"

The sound of the boy's voice startled him, and he nearly dropped the dish he was washing. Still wasn't quite used to the kid talking. When the question registered, Adam snorted a laugh. “This is Wyrmwold Flats.”

But just in case the kid didn't get it, he added, “Yeah, it's always locked.”

As the implication behind the question sank in, a feeling of dread nestled in Adam's stomach once more. The kid was in trouble, after all, possibly of the deadly variety, and as long as he was staying in Adam's apartment, he wasn't the only one in danger. Then again he could just be scoping the place out, looking for openings so that he could come back and rob it. Adam had no idea, but obviously the boy wasn't about to clear that mystery up for him. At least if the question was born out of fear, Adam could make some small attempt to ease the kid's mind.

"What about your windows?"

Now that one he hadn't expected, and Adam glanced over at the boy. How high did the kid have to be to forget that they were three stories up? What could possibly happen if someone failed to lock their third story windows? It was probably just a drug-fueled question, but the more Adam thought about it, the more unsettled he felt.

"Yeah. I don't usually open them. There's no fire escape, though, so..."

Once again, the boy fell silent, so Adam shrugged it off and collected his empty dishes for washing. When they were clean, Adam stood in the kitchen for a while, rubbing his neck again. It was late. He was tired, or at least he should be. What a long, strange day.

Adam headed back into the living room and was relieved to see the boy was dressed and sitting on the fold out bed. The clothes were a bit baggy on his lithe frame, however, and the shirt slipped down over the kid's left shoulder, right below his collar bone. Adam tried not to look, considering what had just transpired between them, but his gaze drifted naturally to a hint of color right above the line of fabric. A tattoo? He was surprised he hadn't noticed it until now, given the incident earlier. Then again, he had been a little... distracted. Adam could just barely make out the design from where he was standing; it looked like some sort of serpent wrapped around a shield and decorated in a series of letters Adam didn't recognize. The tattoo was stretched and faded like it had been there for a while, and for some reason, it made his heart race.

The distinct feeling of eyes upon him made Adam look up, and he realized that for the second time that night he'd been caught gawking at the boy. 

"Uh, um...I'm gonna go to sleep now," he said, quickly, raking a hand through his hair and glancing at the kitchen like he hadn't been staring. As expected, there was no answer from the kid, and Adam was a little grateful for that. He'd never felt like such a creep.

Behind him, Adam could hear the boy tentatively crawling under the covers, and that made him relax a little. He grabbed the damp towel from the back of the kitchen chair and headed to his bedroom without glancing at the couch again. At the doorway, though, he hesitated, then looked back over his shoulder. "...Hey, kid? I'm Adam. What's your name?"

There was a long pause, and at first Adam thought he wouldn't get a reply. But then, "Luke." It was said quietly, almost as if the boy wasn't sure of it.

Adam half-smiled, then nodded. "Luke," he repeated. "Nice to meet you."

The boy said nothing, and Adam turned off the light.

"...Night, then," he called before retreating to his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

 

Adam lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling as he listened to Luke shifting around in the living room. After a while, all that could be heard was occasional, light snoring, and Adam felt like he could finally relax a little. Regardless, he was still so tense, caught up in his thoughts. He swallowed hard. Was he a bad person for considering taking the boy up on that offer? Even for just a second? No, it wasn't that he wanted to take advantage. He was just... a little lacking in the intimacy department lately.

Cursing to himself, Adam closed his eyes and slid his hand beneath the covers. He was still painfully hard from the encounter earlier, and he startled the moment his fingers brushed his cock. He hesitated at first, fighting the urge to picture soft, pink lips swallowing him up, and only allowed his hand to get to work once he'd fixated his imagination onto a Calvin Klein model that posed for an underwear billboard he saw on his way to work every day.

Almost immediately, the tension in his muscles began to melt away and Adam sighed, relaxing a little more with every caress. Talk about pent up, he could already tell it wouldn't take much effort to finish himself off. His fingers knew exactly where to go, exactly what he liked, and he stroked with increasing speed--light pressure at the base, firmer grip near the head. His spare hand reached down to cup his sack, and he panted as he felt the building climax in his gut.

Adam thrust one more time, and in his own mind, he came all over that Calvin Klein model's face. His cock twitched in his hand, and he quickly let go, the skin now extremely sensitive. For a moment, Adam just lay in the after glow letting the warmth wash over him. Then he reached for a tissue to wipe up the mess the best he could, crumpling it up and tossing it toward the trash. The tissue bounced off of the side of the basket and landed on the hardwood floor.

“Whatever,” Adam mumbled. He turned on his side and within minutes, he was asleep.

***


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam goes on with life as usual, but he has trouble shaking thoughts of the strange boy from several nights earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still feeling out this site. While I really like the format, it's clear that original fiction writers are much less likely to get traffic, so I'll see if anybody is really reading. Part of posting writing online is figuring out the best places to set it up. If you do read, thank you for taking the time!
> 
> Also, if you like the story and wish to be added to my mailing list, please let me know by sending me your e-mail address in a comment or personal message. Thank you!

***

"...What?"

Adam sipped his coffee, cringing as it hit his tongue. He couldn't believe they were charging three dollars for this crap. "Why do we come here again?" he asked, reaching for his third sugar packet.

" _What?_ " Jeremy repeated, loud enough to draw some attention from the table beside them. "What the hell were you thinking, Adam?"

"Mostly that it was so cold outside, my balls were about to shrivel up and fall off. And that if I didn't tend to my hair right away, I'd never be crowned homecoming queen."

Jeremy hadn't touched his tea since Adam had started telling him about the strange boy he'd taken in several nights earlier, give or take a few details. Adam, of course, was being predictably difficult about the whole thing. Even though he knew damn well his ex was right to be concerned, he'd just never been big on admitting fault. At least not out loud. Deep down he was well aware how nuts that choice had been, how dangerous. But he was too stubborn to say it. Jeremy had always hated that about him, but unfortunately Adam was also flawed with a resistance to change.

"You're insane. He could have robbed you."

"Yep, probably." Adam tested the coffee again and decided the acrid taste was better than developing diabetes in an attempt to sweeten it.

"God, you have the self-preservation skills of an intoxicated marmot."

"Pass the creamers."

"For Christ's sake." Jeremy tossed a few containers at Adam before finally picking up his lukewarm drink. "I don't know how you survive in East Valley."

Adam smirked to himself, gazing out the window at the people passing by. The sky was still heavy with the promise of more rain. "I would have thought you'd be more shocked that I'd done a good deed, to be honest."

Jeremy rolled his eyes and looked out the window as well. "I knew it was a bad idea for you to go back to bartending. What did I tell you? Three weeks and you're already back on the scotch."

"Can't you tell by the depressed gleam in my eye that I haven't had a drink in months?" Adam turned his focus to a stubborn biscotti, trying to break it in half. "Look, I know it was a little out of character."

"Ha!"

"But it turned out okay. Not like he had the chance to go make copies of my keys or anything."

Jeremy snatched the biscotti from him, breaking it in half and handing one of the pieces to Adam. "Why not call child protective services or something? What if whoever messed him up was out there, following him? And, I hate to say it, but what if the kid had lice or something. Now you need to clean your whole place."

"It's not like he ran around rubbing his head on things," Adam said. "He took a shower. I made him some dinner. He went to bed."

"You cook now, too?" Jeremy scoffed, dipping his biscotti into his tea. "I don't even know you anymore."

"Ugh, gross! How can you eat it like that?" Adam asked, chewing on the hard cookie.

"See, this is why we broke up," Jeremy said, dipping the biscotti again. "I like to moisten my baked goods. You like to bring underage prostitutes into your home in the middle of the night..."

"Whatever. He's gone either way. Not like I'm gonna see him again." Adam wouldn't admit that he'd thought about the boy several times since the encounter. He just couldn't shake that strange feeling. Maybe it was the way Adam struggled to find the words to describe it that had him dwelling. But it hardly mattered now--the kid, along with any evidence that he had even been there, had vanished by the time Adam woke. There hadn't been a note or anything, not like Adam had really expected one, but the fact that nothing was stolen was as good as a thank you card in Adam's opinion.

Regardless, he wondered where the kid had gone. Was he still out there wandering? Had he returned home? Was he with some other guy now, doing what he'd intended to do to Adam in return for a place to stay? The thought made Adam shudder. It was sick that a person could be forced to survive that way, especially someone as young as that boy. A child deserved to grow up without having to fight to survive. That was something he believed on a very personal level.

"But it's not like you'd have time anyway, since you're too busy jerking off to your own reflection."

Adam glanced over, staring for a moment before it registered that Jeremy had been talking to him. "I wasn't looking at my reflection."

"There aren't many things that can hold your attention more than the topic of you," Jeremy assured him.

"So _what_ now?" Adam asked, finishing the liquid mud in his cup with a single gulp.

"I was telling you that a few of us are going out to Hollywood Sinister next week."

"Cool, a night club. I don't work at one of those five nights a week, so I'll definitely want to go to one on my day off."

"There's a guy you might like who's coming with. I think you two might hit it off."

Adam sighed. "Are you reigning me in a booty call?"

"No," Jeremy said. "I wouldn't call it that. I'm just subtly commenting on your mood and the fact that you need to get laid. If this guy happens to put out like nobody's business, well, that's just a bonus for you, right?"

"The real bonus will be the chlamydia."

"Just say you'll be there."

Adam glanced out the window again, just in time to catch a flash of bright blond hair as someone passed. He craned his neck for a better look, then realized what he was doing and sat back. It couldn't be healthy to be so preoccupied with a kid he hardly knew. Jeremy was right about how badly Adam needed a little action.

With a sigh, he pushed his empty coffee cup away and got to his feet.

"All right, whatever."

Jeremy grinned triumphantly and stood as well. "Lighten up. It'll be fun. Seriously, when did you become such an old geezer?"

"Don't you have a job to get to? Or are you paid to publicly berate people in cafes?"

"Eh, you like the abuse," Jeremy said, and Adam couldn't help but smirk. The two exchanged hugs and good byes, then Adam grabbed his jacket and reluctantly headed back out into the dreary afternoon.

 

**********

 

By the end of the week, the weather hadn't improved at all. In fact, old Zeus seemed to be particularly pissed that afternoon. Adam tossed his drenched jacket on the couch and shut the door behind him with his foot. Sopping wet clothes be damned, Adam wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed and sleep for a day or two. His ears felt stuffed with cotton from the night of damagingly loud music. His temples throbbed in time to the techno beat still stuck in his head. In fact, his whole body ached from the constant pouring, shifting, sliding, reaching for money, reaching for booze. The only thing more driving than the urge to pass out was the need to wash the scent of Grey Goose and cloves off his skin.

Adam had never pictured himself working at a hipster bar, but with his... history... not many places were willing to take him in, and his skills were limited beyond making one hell of a drink. The Black Hole had decided Adam's experience and talent outweighed the risk of his explosive personality. He had to take what he could get.

Many people were surprised when Adam had decided to go back to bartending, but he just couldn't do the minimum wage thing forever. Besides the fact that he could survive on the tips alone serving liquor, Adam was just familiar with the work style and the kind of folks who frequented such establishments. It suited him--even if he'd grown to hate clubs over time. Either way, he'd been at the place for a month without a hitch. With luck, it would stay that way.

As he kicked off his shoes, Adam noticed the answering machine light flash and he pressed the button on his way to the kitchen.

"Sent, Thursday, 7:53 P.M," the robotic voice read out to him as he filled a glass with tap water.

"Adam, this is your grandmother," she said, as if he couldn't guess. "I want to know if you're still coming down for Thanksgiving. I need to know how many places to set and if I'm going to have to switch to the good china. I hope you're not still going through your little 'no meat' phase, because I don't think we'll be having any tofurkey this year unless you bring it yourself. There's just no time with all the things I have to cook. I have the sweet potatoes, and the tuna casserole, and the ham because your cousin Tim is supposedly allergic to turkey. I swear his mother just coddles him. If she wants to keep him so sheltered, she should do the cooking herself. I already have so much on my plate. There's the quiche, and the salad, and the stuffing which takes a good hour because I'm using that new recipe I told you about..."

Adam mostly tuned out the message as he battled the rising dread that threatened to constrict his throat. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to his home town for Thanksgiving. There was too much there. Too many memories. Too many reminders of the things that made him the bitter person he was today. Adam chugged his water and set the glass in the sink, then wandered back into the living room. A glimmer of light caught his eye as he passed, and he looked over at the silver frame beside the telephone. Sometimes Adam forgot it was there, but it was practically glowing tonight. He picked it up, gazing intently at the young man in the photo. Collin smiled at him in that shy way he always did. He looked so happy.

"I expect you'll want to come down for a few days, but give me the exact dates because I need to know if I should wash extra sheets. I suppose you can sleep in the guest room with your cousin Derek. You boys need to--"

The answering machine cut her off, and Adam rolled his eyes, setting down the picture before crossing the room and sinking into the sofa. "I'm sick, grandma," he mumbled to himself. "I can't go. The flu, really bad. Yeah, I'm vomiting everywhere. It'd be a bitch to get that out of your carpet."

"Sent, Thursday, 8:09 P.M," the answering machine continued, before his grandmother's nasally voice filled the apartment once more.

"Oh, whoops, I got disconnected somehow. Anyway, Adam, I don't want any of your excuses. At the very least, you should come down here to see your mother."

Had he not been so delirious, Adam very well may have given himself whiplash snapping around to face the machine. Even as exhausted as he was, the words cut through his haze like daggers and buried themselves in his gut. Every muscle in Adam's body tensed; for a beat or two, he was pretty sure his heart had stopped.

"She sent a postcard last week telling me she's planning on coming to dinner and looks forward to seeing you. I'm sure you'll want the chance to get back in touch with her."

The rest of the message didn't register as his grandma went on to complain about the price of canned cranberry sauce. Adam hadn't spoken to his mother in easily four years. Even then, his contact with her had been minimal. Phone calls. Letters. And then that last conversation they'd had...

His stomach flipped like he was going to be sick. Hand over his mouth, Adam ran to the bathroom, doubling over the sink. He fumbled with the nozzles but managed to turn on the cold water, splashing his face and holding his breath until the nausea passed. When he was certain he wouldn't vomit, Adam exhaled, gripping the side of the sink and letting the knot in his stomach untie. It was like someone had reached inside of him and fastened a vise grip on his gut.

He wasn't the easily surprised sort, but there were some things Adam just wouldn't allow himself to anticipate. If a person tried hard enough, it wasn't too difficult to completely push someone from one's mind. To have that person suddenly thrust back into one's reality was as jarring as watching the dead coming back to life. He couldn't stop shaking, half upset, half enraged that the news was affecting him like it was.

Again, Adam's stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard. No doubt he looked as awful as he felt at this point. When he dared it, he glanced up at his reflection, startled by the pale, exhausted looking man that gazed back at him. He looked older now than he had when he'd left the apartment that morning. It was amazing how stress so quickly transferred to his face, like some kind of deadly rash. So much for living fast and dying pretty.

"God, you need a vacation," Adam told the mirror. His reflection offered no reply.

 

**********

 

Whatever had been on Adam's mind an hour ago was crushed the moment he was sucked into that familiar mass of bodies: tangled limbs, sweat down his back, fingers sliding up wet skin. Even without the rush of alcohol, it was so easy for Adam to lose himself-- he knew this language well. It was rhythmic vibrations in his chest, heat beneath his hands, lust that poured off of the body that was grinding against his own. His brain was numb to everything but that perfect ass pressing into him. Right now, nothing else mattered.

To think just forty-five minutes earlier he'd been ready to bolt, pacing back and forth near the club entrance like a nervous cocker spaniel. Even after years of working in the same chaotic environment, Adam had never quite grown accustomed to that initial jolt, the first few minutes of music so loud it was painful. Adam had figured his eardrums would have been dulled and damaged to the point of needing a hearing aid by then, but without fail, every time he came within a few feet of the club his ears started screaming. This was a daily thing for Adam, and what he had really wanted that evening was to sit around at home and mope. In fact, he'd already thought up a really good excuse in anticipation of the inevitable, angry phone call he'd get if he were to make a run for it.

But then Jeremy showed up, draped over the arm of some bodybuilder, walking like he was already wasted and dressed like he planned to make a little money that evening. A young guy with an affinity for hair gel was tailing them, and though he had a look on his face that suggested he thought himself pretty damn amazing, Adam concluded that he wasn't particularly hard on the eyes. His date, he assumed. Not exactly Adam's type, but he was hot, and for tonight that was good enough.

Jeremy introduced hair-gel boy as Ricky, and the guy took his hand and squeezed it, rubbing his thumb along the edge of Adam's knuckle. He gazed into Adam's eyes with an exaggerated expression on his face that Adam assumed was supposed to be seductive.

"Nice to meet you,” Ricky cooed. Adam just barely held back the smirk.

Inside, the club was as loud and crazy as Adam had figured it would be; but once he'd gotten used to the music, he realized he could probably use the distraction. Try as he may, Adam just couldn't get that message about his mother out of his head. It kept playing in his mind on repeat, making his stomach twist and knot. He couldn't believe after all this time he still let that woman get to him. Hadn't he been through this enough times to know how to detach himself from the bullshit? He wasn't a little boy anymore. All he wanted was to move on.

Fortunately, the booming base and frantic techno music beating against his skull made it hard to form a coherent thought. The four of them weaved their way through the crowd and stopped when they'd found a spot near the bar. Jeremy had already successfully forgotten the rule of personal space and was throwing his arms around Adam, talking into his throat and shoulder. He screamed over the music, directly into Adam's ear, filling in details on the guy he was with-- Tim, Jim, something like that-- in a drunken tenor. The other two made brief attempts at grabbing the attention of the bartender, but they eventually returned empty handed. The club was becoming more and more packed by the minute, and soon it was difficult to stay huddled together. By the time Jeremy had latched onto his date again, there were already a few dancing couples between them, so Adam gave up trying to communicate. He took a deep breath, prepared to give in to the spirit of the club; somewhere inside of him, there had to be a reckless teenager who didn't give a damn about brain cells or hearing damage.

"So where do you work?" Ricky asked, tilting his head so that his overly greased bangs slid over his eyebrow.

"Oh, Jeremy didn't tell you? I work in an old folk's home, tending to the elderly. I'm usually playing bingo on the weekends. This is my first time getting out in months."

Ricky looked like he wasn't sure what to say, so he licked his lips and parted them suggestively. "Cool," he said, the default response to having nothing of importance to add to the conversation.

Adam glanced out at the crowd, noticing that somewhere along the way Jeremy and Jim/Tim/Whatever had disappeared. Ricky seemed not to have noticed the absence and was currently working on drawing attention to his bared midriffs.

"So you wanna dance?" Adam asked, even though he already knew what the answer would be.

Just like that, they were in the middle of sexually charged chaos, all conversation put on hold. Adam found he rather preferred this sort of communication with Ricky; it was a lot easier to appreciate the guy when he was talking with his body and not his mouth. But Adam could certainly think of other things that mouth might be good for.

It had been a little while since he had been to a club as a customer rather than an employee, but what was nice about a place like Hollywood Sinister was that it mattered not at all if someone happened to be a little rusty. He didn't need to be an amazing dancer; he just had to be comfortable with showing off his bedroom skills. Ricky certainly had no problem leading the way in that department. He had his back to Adam's chest, and he rubbed against him, putting particular emphasis on the place where their hips met. They rocked together, instinctively matching one another's rhythm as Adam slid his hands under Ricky's shirt to caress his chest. His heart was racing, blood pumping as they practically dry humped among the hundreds of other people doing the same.

Adam couldn't keep his eyes off of those lips: they way they parted; the way Ricky's tongue slid over them, sending a jolt straight to Adam's cock. It was intense being that turned on. The rush was making him dizzy, and Ricky's practiced, deliberate movement was getting him worked up to an unhealthy degree. He was fairly certain he could soak up this lust all night if he didn't pass out first.

"Fuck," Adam finally gasped. "I... need fresh air. Coming?"

“Hopefully,” Ricky smirked.

On any other day, Adam would have rolled his eyes, but right now he was way too on edge. He pushed through the crowd without looking back at Ricky, assuming the guy would follow. The last of his energy went into wrestling his way to the club doors, and he exploded into the evening like a drowning man breaching water. Relief washed over him and he took a deep breath that burned his lungs; it had stopped raining several hours earlier, but the air was especially crisp and cool now. Adam had been more overheated than he'd realized. How long had they been on the dance floor, anyway?

There was a chain link fence a few yards away that looked fairly welcoming and was far enough from the building that he could smoke there, but before he could get make his way over, two hands grabbed his shirt and tugged him into the darkness of a nearby alleyway. Adam had no time to react as Ricky shoved him against a brick wall and slid up in front of him, grinning. Their faces were only a few inches apart, and Adam shuddered at the warm breath on his lips.

“It's chilly out here,” Ricky panted. “Wouldn't want you to catch a cold.”

A half grin tugged at Adam's lips as fingers snaked down his sides and over his belly. Well, well. Jeremy had promised and Ricky had delivered. No complaints on Adam's part--especially not when he so enjoyed watching his date fall to his knees in front of him. Ricky kept eye contact as he undid Adam's fly with his teeth and pulled the zipper down in the same manner. God, it was tough not to just jerk down his pants himself and shove his cock between those wet lips.

Ricky's fingers gently danced over Adam's sides, giving him goosebumps on his arms and another spark of desire down below. He tugged down Adam's pants just enough to free him, and Adam startled at the sudden rush of cool air on his erection. Fortunately, it wouldn't be chilly for long as Ricky's hands gripped him firmly, but not too tightly, and his pink tongue flicked out to lick the head. Adam gasped, digging his fingers into the brick behind him. The long dry spell was certainly making this whole thing that much sweeter, but there was no denying the underlying skill in those touches--this guy knew what he was doing.

Ricky's tongue grew more confident as it slid over the head of Adam's cock, expertly tracing the contours; then those lips joined in, caressing and teasing before inviting him into the heat of his mouth. Adam's breath hitched as he fought not to thrust into the warmth, but Ricky maintained control. Adam watched as he was taken in at an agonizingly slow pace, gradually sliding in as deep as he could go. When Ricky's lips touched the base, he drew back to the tip again with more pressure than before. With one hand, he massaged Adam's sack, sucking harder as he found a rhythm.

Adam groaned, tangling his fingers in sweat-slick hair. Though Ricky had failed to say anything of interest that evening, Adam couldn't deny that the guy sure had an experienced tongue. In fact, he had no idea how long he would last--between the end of his unplanned celibacy and the way this guy handled cock, Adam was quickly losing control. He almost asked Ricky to slow down, but he couldn't find the words. That coil in his gut was already tightening, and..

The sound of a door opening had Adam jumping before he even registered what it was. He jerked back before the other could pull off of him and bumped against Ricky's teeth in the process, sending a spark of pain through his groin. “SHIT!” he cursed, trying to be quiet as he turned away from Ricky and grabbed his crotch. A confused looking young man in a white apron stared at them, then tossed a bag of trash in the dumpster before going back inside. Adam didn't turn to make sure he had left. Once the sting had faded, he quickly stuffed himself back into his jeans and scrambled out of the alleyway. Adam had no idea why he hadn't seen that coming; lately, the entire world was out to blue ball him.

“Shit,” he said again, under his breath, searching for his pack and lighter with shaking hands. Once he had them, he made his way over to the fence and practically collapsed against it. Ricky was right behind him, equally flustered, maybe a little flushed like he was embarrassed, which genuinely surprised Adam. As eager as the guy was, that couldn't have been his first time getting caught.

Adam appreciated the long moment of silence between them before Ricky leaned against the fence as well. “...Sorry.”

“Why, did you plan that?”

“What? No!”

Adam laughed and glanced over, hoping the guy wasn't serious but not bothering to explain that it had been a joke. He finally managed to light his cigarette and inhaled deeply, turning away toward the street.

Ricky fidgeted beside him, pushing sweat drenched bangs away from his face. “I just mean... uh, well. I owe you one. Later tonight. If you still want it.”

Their eyes met, and Adam grinned. “...Seriously? No, that was your last chance. It really puts me out to have someone suck my dick.” And the fact that he was still rock hard meant he only liked the guy as a friend.

Ricky semi-smiled like he wasn't entirely sure if Adam was kidding or not, but his shoulders relaxed. The smirk still on his lips, Adam leaned back and watched people going in and out of the club as he let the nicotine haze calm his nerves. Near the entrance, the bouncer was fighting with some yuppie kid with plastic rimmed, ridiculous glasses. Glasses that Adam was willing to bet weren't at all necessary. The bouncer was pushing him out, and two girls were trying to wiggle their way in, causing a commotion.

"Damn," Adam sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Wonder where Jeremy and Wonder-hunk went."

Ricky shrugged. "You used to date Jeremy, right?"

"Yep."

Adam made no indication that he intended to continue, so Ricky went on.

"Why'd you break up?"

"Eh," he stretched his legs, rolling onto his heels. Frankly, Adam was surprised Jeremy hadn't told already; he'd always been a bit of a blabber mouth. But maybe that information was a little too embarrassing, even to him. "We're just... really different people."

"Kind of weird that you guys are still friends," Ricky said. "I'm not friends with any of my exes. They're assholes."

Adam shrugged. "I've been told I make a better friend just in general."

He glanced at Ricky and grinned at the skeptical expression on the guy's face. "That doesn't mean I'm lacking in the bedroom department, though, believe me," he said, turning his attention back to his cigarette. "And I'd appreciate it if you just gave me the benefit of the doubt, cause I've been dating that fleshlight I got for Christmas for like three months, and we've really wanted to try having an open relationship.”

When Ricky didn't reply, Adam looked over to explain to the guy that he was just teasing, but Ricky wasn't facing him. He was staring across the street at a small cluster of cars. Adam followed his gaze, pulling the cigarette from his lips and leaning over to see what was so interesting. Beneath a light post, some man in a suit was yelling at two young people--teenage boys, it looked like. One of the boys was getting into a car that had actually pulled right up onto the sidewalk, but the other was turned away. It wasn't until the man grabbed the boy that Adam could see him clearly

Pretty face, blue eyes, startlingly blond hair--it was Luke.

"Holy shit," Adam breathed. What were the odds, this far away and in a city as big as theirs? With his mind caught up in the crap regarding his mother, Adam had nearly forgotten about the boy from a few nights back. And now, here he was apparently fighting with some weird guy in front of a diner.

Adam's stomach flipped as he saw the way the man's fingers dug into Luke's arm. The boy clearly didn't want to be anywhere near this guy, but he was standing in a manner that suggested it was causing him great discomfort to resist the grip. Adam flashed back to that night a few days earlier, those bruises on the boy's throat. Maybe he was looking at the mother fucker who'd put them there.

“What? Do you know those people?”

Adam didn't reply. This was none of his business. _He knew_ it was none of his business. But that didn't stop his chest from tightening, his heart from racing. He had to say something, do something. Anything. It was so fucking easy to look the other way, wasn't it? So fucking easy to ignore that woman at church with a permanent black eye, to pretend like your neighbor's son just fell down the stairs a hell of a lot. No one wanted to look. No one wanted to dirty their hands. And he'd be damned before he just stood around and watched someone beat up on a kid half their size.

_Fuck it._

Adam pushed away from the fence and started toward the group. It looked like they were too busy fighting to notice him approaching, but before Adam could cross the street, Luke looked over, immediately catching Adam's eye. Like a bolt of lightning, that strange feeling from before hit him hard, and Adam froze. His heart began to pound, hands began to shake. The breath froze on his lips. What the hell was happening? All of that determination from just a moment earlier was completely replaced by a surge of emotion Adam couldn't describe. He felt paralyzed; all he could do was stare into that intense gaze, the startled expression that likely mirrored his own.

But the surprise on Luke's face abruptly faded to panic, and suddenly, he wasn't resisting anymore. Before Adam could take another step, Luke was crawling into the vehicle, disappearing behind tinted windows. The man followed after him without looking over, and soon the three cars on the curb pulled away, speeding off into the night.

Adam remained frozen for an unnatural amount of time, staring in the direction the cars had driven, even when they were long gone. He didn't know what to think, nor was he sure exactly what had just happened. He felt pity for the kid, of course, but that didn't explain the odd feelings that lingered.

After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, Adam let out a long, slow breath and walked back to Ricky.

"Hello? What the fuck was that?" Ricky asked, hand on his hip.

"...Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing."

"Yeah. Funny how that goes." Adam leaned against the fence again, tapping away a chunk of ash.

Ricky narrowed his eyes and huffed, dramatically. "You know, keep up the attitude and you're not getting in my pants after all," he threatened.

"Heh, really now?"

"...Well, no. But I won't swallow."

Adam smirked and finished his cigarette. "Come on," he said, heading back to the club. He had all the time in the world to agonize over things he couldn't do shit to change. Right now, he just wanted to dance and fuck the night away. He deserved that much.

***


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explores Luke's perspective a bit. Chapter four is still being edited but should be up within the next week or so.

The tingle started in Luke's fingers, then slowly crept up his arm. He'd felt the first sparks two days earlier, but until now he'd managed to convince himself that it was just the cold, his skin going numb from the rain. His hair was still wet from the last downpour, and he knew not to count on it drying before the floodgates burst again--not with the air still heavy with the smell of atmosphere, the sky still ominous and gray. It would be just his luck if he got sick out here. He hoped that before the weather acted up again he was off the street. Or out of the whole fucking city altogether. The truth was, that was starting to look less and less likely.

Luke had been on edge all morning, even after two cigarettes--his last two, which just made everything worse. It was like the start of the world's worst hangover; even the patches of murky, cloud-filtered sunlight were grating on his nerves. The streets were alive with their usual sounds: traffic, dogs barking, pedestrians cursing at one another. It was nothing Luke wasn't used to, but the noise was particularly chaotic that afternoon. Mostly... because of the trees. City trees were so loud. Swaying, rustling. Whispering.

Luke set his jaw and popped the tab on a lukewarm coke, focusing on the carbonated burn as it hit his tongue. He couldn't let his thoughts get away from him. Had to stay calm. Had to keep breathing. He'd been expecting this; after flying high for weeks, he'd just been robbed of his wings. There was no telling how long it would take before he struck the ground, but he knew it had been at least eight days since his last hit. Only a matter of time before the effects wore off and he was faced with the consequences.

 _Angel Blood_. Sweet as it was deadly. The drug was highly regulated and almost impossible to find outside of the Underground. This, of course, posed a slight problem for Luke. From around the age of nine he hadn't gone more than 72 hours without the stuff, and experience had taught him that if there were anything more likely to kill you than riding AB, it was coming off of it. Not that he'd gone through it himself, but he'd witnessed it enough. Like something straight out of a schizophrenic nightmare. Luke was fortunate he'd gone as long as he had without feeling any symptoms. He'd expected a brutal crash after the first three days, but the more time that passed, the more Luke had wondered if perhaps his withdrawal would actually delay long enough to allow him to make it out of the city. Stupid, wishful thinking, but that was really all he had anymore.

All around him, vendors called to passersby from street corners, thrusting their goods at any potential customer within an arm's reach. The smell of hotdogs wafted through the air, making Luke's mouth water. On cue, his stomach belted out a growl, demanding to be fed. Too bad Luke didn't have the cash, or the energy, to make off with one of the nearby snacks. Sighing, he fished around in his pocket to see what he had. A protein bar and half a bag of fun-size Doritos left over from what he'd shop lifted two days earlier; wasn't exactly the breakfast of champions. Luke's last real meal had been roughly four days prior, and he wasn't sure when he'd have another. Unfortunately, chances were he was going to have to hit another gas station, which didn't exactly thrill him. If Luke had planned this... _vacation_... he would have brought a back pack full of food, water, a change of clothes, maybe even a decent pair of shoes if he could manage it. But the trip had been the worst kind of impromptu: no time for packing, and certainly no time for ruing that fact now.

That in mind, he needed to rest while he had the chance. He was currently fairly far from Damien's territory, and the streets weren't flooding up to his shins; it was the best situation he had at the moment. If he could sleep on the ground without drowning, he had to do it right away, before that changed. Luke was well aware that he needed to keep running if he ever expected to get out of Wyrmwold Flats, but he'd been on the move since dawn, and he wouldn't make it much farther if he were exhausted. There was no telling when he'd get another chance to relax, especially with the way his senses were starting to fizzle. Besides, it was getting a little harder to think with the building cacophony in his ears...

Maybe luck would suddenly shine on him and he would find another safe place to crash where no one could strike him while he was vulnerable. If he could get off the streets for a few days, it might give him enough time to sober up before he started running again. Of course, he figured he'd sooner meet some guy in a suit offering him a million bucks. Luke wasn't an idiot. He knew that that opportunity several days back had been a fluke. There weren't many people in the city as generous, or as stupid, as the guy he'd met that night. ...Adam. Yeah, that was it. Some Mother Theresa wannabe. Or maybe he was just a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Luke wasn't sure. For all he knew, the guy could have been some sort of religious type trying to add points to his "get into heaven free" punch card.

It was pretty amazing, though, that the man had offered a no-strings-attached helping hand and hadn't gone back on his word. That was something Luke hadn't experienced for a long, long while, mostly because he didn't know many people with that sort of personality. What they referred to in the Underground as "a dead man's survival skills."

It wasn't that Luke didn't appreciate what Adam had done, but even he knew a bad decision when he saw one. People who lived on the streets had to survive one way or another. Luke was opportunistic, just like anyone else would be. Come morning, he'd dug around for whatever valuables he could find. A wallet, any electronics lying around, but the living room was pretty barren. Of course, there was that picture frame beside the phone. It had stood out to Luke among the others on the wall. Those were cheap--nickle or stainless steel, even plastic. The one on the end table had definitely been silver. He knew because Damien had a taste for sharp, pointy things, and silver happened to be his favorite flavor. Over time, Luke had developed an eye for it and could pick it out from less valuable metals.

The thought of Damien made Luke grit his teeth. His hand traveled to his throat automatically and he tenderly touched the still healing bruises there. The image of that sneering face in his mind was almost enough to make Luke vomit. It put a bad taste in his mouth and he took another swig of his soda as if he could wash it out. A million rage-filled scenarios began to flood Luke's mind, but he did his best to shove them down; he couldn't lose himself in his emotions right now.

Meanwhile, all around him life was going on like it was nothing. Luke watched as people laughed and chatted outside of shops, hurried down the sidewalk with cell phones to their ears, jogged with dogs on leashes. Across the street, some high school kids were horsing around in front of a small cafe. They were probably around Luke's age, but they looked so much younger to him. Cleaner, too, and happy. Secure. They wouldn't be looking for a place to sleep tonight.

Luke's mind traveled to Adam once more. In the end, he was glad he hadn't taken the photo. It wasn't the picture he'd wanted, of course; that frame would have probably earned him a penny or two at some seedy pawnshop. But he had felt a twinge of regret when he'd considered robbing the dumb sonofabitch who'd probably saved his life that evening. Luke was no saint, but even he could appreciate genuine compassion. It had been a while since anyone had been good to him without an ulterior motive.

Distantly, Luke wondered what that man was doing now. He didn't know anything about the guy--just what he could assess from the apartment, and the fact that he was letting a strange kid stay there for free. He'd probably forgotten about Luke by now, back to whatever it was he did in his day to day life. Luke almost laughed as he recalled the sexual favor he'd offered the man in his half-drugged state. He had been so high, he probably would have sucked at it anyway. In retrospect, Adam probably had a girlfriend or something and was currently trying to wash any "gay" cooties out of the sheets Luke had slept on. Not like straight guys hadn't opted to use his mouth before, but he didn't really expect that out of a do-gooder sort.

For a while there, Luke saw a lot of those: do-gooders. They had soup kitchens, and clothing drives, and porcelain, middle class smiles. All of them were more than willing to lend a hand. That is, until there was a risk of getting that hand dirty. Then there wasn't a hint of that overly polished grin. No, Luke realized. Adam couldn't be one of those. Maybe he was his own breed.

It was getting later, and Luke needed to figure out where he'd be crashing for the night. What he really wanted was to get a bus ticket straight out of Wyrmold Flats, sleep on the trip over. But bus tickets required money--money Luke didn’t have--and while shop lifting was simple enough to pull off, he wasn’t about to try holding up a register.

There was, of course, one other way he could earn a little money, but the thought alone made his stomach twist in nerves. There weren't many things Luke was good at, but he did know how to get a stranger off. Men were willing to pay a decent price for that; the city was crawling with ticks ready to suck him dry. However, though Luke didn't exactly love the work, that wasn't what had him so uneasy. Sucking a few dicks, fucking a few strangers--that was a small price to pay to get the hell out of the city. Lord new if he went back now he'd be doing the exact same thing. Minus a few teeth after Damien got a hold of him. But there were serious risks at taking clients now that he’d run off on his own.

For one thing, Luke wasn’t familiar with this part of the city. It could be someone’s territory, and he wasn’t prepared to deal with an angry pimp or whatever else might be prowling about. Then there was the fact that he wasn't sure what the cops were like around here, and it would be very, _very_ , bad if he got arrested. Unfortunately, it was even more risky to return to his usual neighborhoods. It wasn’t like there would be “missing” signs posted everywhere, but there'd certainly be people who knew the Underground was looking for him. He was fifty times more likely to be spotted at one of his old haunts.

The tingling in Luke's fingers was now more of an itching burn, and it stretched from his arms over his chest, a painful reminder of how precious his time was becoming. He couldn't just keep wandering through the city; if Luke didn't leave soon, he’d be trapped forever. That meant finding money as quickly as possible. Eventually Luke would have to make a decision; he just hoped it wouldn't be the wrong one.

Across the street, a car came to a screeching halt as one of the teens from the cafe was sent flying across the asphalt. People crowded around the boy all at once, causing a commotion as someone called an ambulance. Luke stayed where he was, just watching with a sick feeling in his gut; it was a cold dread creeping from the bottom of his stomach up into his throat. Luke wasn't superstitious--he didn't believe in omens, good or bad. But that didn't quiet the nagging voice in the back of his mind. The one that told him he wasn’t getting out of this town. That he was stupid for trying. That this was just delaying the inevitable.

Sirens sounded in the distance, but Luke knew the boy was already dead.

He finished his coke and moved on.

 

**********

 

Luke woke with a jolt and was greeted by pain shooting through his entire body. The night had not been kind to him, and by day six what had previously been distant withdrawal symptoms was now white agony and crippling nausea. His eyes focused, and he was overcome with a sensation like his body being torn to pieces by fire ants: little legs and mandibles and bites covering his skin. So much for tingling. Luke's clothing was damp, from the night's rain or his own sweat. He had camped out beside an empty dumpster and covered himself with some discarded rags, but they were all gone now, probably thrown off in his feverish sleep. Even with his clothing wet, he was burning up; his blood was like lava in his veins.

Somehow, Luke managed to roll onto his belly and crawl to his feet. He leaned against the alley wall, catching his breath. Then he was on the sidewalk with no memory of how he'd gotten there. The sun was beating down on him, so hot that it felt like it was right beside him. There were still several heavy clouds in the sky, but not enough to block out those burning rays. He could feel their weight, like they were trying to smother him. Luke grabbed his hair and tugged as hard as he could, focusing on the sharp pain to stop himself from breaking down. He wasn't losing it. He wasn't.

People on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth as he stumbled around aimlessly; they kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact, though Luke hardly noticed them. He had to focus on where he was going, but for some reason he couldn't exactly remember where that was. Now and then, Luke stopped to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve and catch his breath, which now felt thick and heavy in his lungs. Every step was taking so much energy, like he'd never walked before. At some point, his feet decided he'd had enough, and he found himself lying on the ground, half curled into a fetal position and completely ignorant of his location. In a brief moment of lucidity, he realized someone had placed a dollar in his hand, and he looked around, eyes burning from the light. Everything was starting to look painfully sharp, and the whispers and voices were a jumbled, constant hum--deafening white noise. His head felt like it was going to burst, and his stomach was growling angrily.

Food. He needed food, that was all. Once he'd managed to sit up, he noticed a fast food joint nearby; a dollar wouldn't get him far, but it would get him something. It was just a matter of standing, which Luke eventually pulled off after a few tries--then he was dragging his feet, his shoes hardly protecting him from the sharp stabs of gravel. They were old, that was why. If only he had a better pair. Something that protected his skin, made walking easier. It was the damn tennis shoes that were causing him to trip and weave. They were like cinder blocks on his feet.

Suddenly Luke was in the fast food restaurant, ordering a dollar burger. He had no recollection of coming up to the counter, but he didn't take the order back, shakily handing the bill to the skeptical cashier. The kid looked Luke over warily, then put the bill in the register, mumbling something about tax, before digging a few cents out of the penny cup. Luke didn't have the energy to reply.

The lapses in time were growing worse. He had the burger. He struggled to eat it. It was gone. He was in the bathroom. He was slumped down on the floor. Everything was happening so quickly, Luke could hardly comprehend what was going on. The door was locked. He double checked, then he leaned into it, resting his forehead against the cool, fake wood.

The walls were vibrating, pulsating, closing in around him. He realized with a start that they were going to crush him, and he tried to press himself against the door in fear. Tried to make himself as small as possible. But then his organs started coming up through his mouth, through his nose. He smacked his hand over his lips, but he couldn't hold them in.

It wasn't his organs, though. It was what he'd just eaten, and he doubled over the toilet just in time to lose everything that he'd possibly consumed within the last 24-hours. When that was gone, it was nothing but bile, and even when the bile was gone he dry heaved, his fingers digging into the porcelain beneath him until they turned white.

He couldn't breathe. The room kept swirling, and now the lights were dancing around him so quickly they made him nauseous. He tried to swat them away but they only moved faster, closing in on him like a vicious swarm of insects. He jerked away from the toilet, fumbling with the flusher before he staggered over to the sink and clung to it. It was all that was keeping him standing, like a crutch beneath him, his legs buckling. The water came out in loud gushes, but Luke dared to reach beneath it. When his fingers weren't shattered, he splashed some on his face. The feeling of water cooling his skin made him groan; it was at once relieving and painful and he dug his fingers into his cheeks to ground himself. This was punishment; it was eating him from the inside out.

When he could open his eyes again, Luke gazed into the mirror at the frightened, ill-looking young man staring back at him. His eyes were blood shot and swollen, dark bags beneath them. His skin was so pale he looked dead, and he was dripping with sweat like he'd been running for miles. Luke's mouth looked funny. It was moving in the mirror, like it was trying to say something, but he wasn't aware of any words on his end. He tried to make a sound but nothing came out. Instead, colors like disjointed music poured from the mouth of his reflection; the image began to twist and warp, spreading from beyond the mirror to the walls and the ceilings until everything Luke saw was deformed. The colors were violent and aggressive. They meant to kill him.

Luke stumbled back quickly enough to hit the wall rather hard. It knocked the wind out of him and he froze, gasping for breath. Unable to move, he sunk to the ground, trembling so violently he could hardly see. Back and forth he rocked, head in his hands as the world assaulted him, unrelenting. A sudden, sharp knock at the door momentarily broke through the haze and Luke screamed something in retaliation-- though he couldn't be sure what. The knocking stopped.

The flashes of blinding color came and went, and Luke waited it out in the bathroom with no sense of time. When he'd finally managed to pull himself off of the floor and head back out, it was already dark. Luke was granted a few more lucid minutes, and as his body rebelled, as it tried to shut him down and leave him quivering on the floor, he realized there was no way in hell he was getting out of here without another dose of Angel Blood. He couldn't continue like this. Especially not with people more cunning than himself on his tail. There _were_ no safe places, no hide outs where he could wait for the drugs to leave his system. He'd been kidding himself, such a fool.

No more room for deliberating now. He needed the cash. He needed the drugs. And there was only one place he could go.

 

**********

Luke's fingers twitched with electric shocks as he stumbled down the street. Every breath was needles assaulting his lungs; every step made his empty belly feel like it was filled with glass. Of all the pain Luke had experienced in his short life, this was beyond compare. In the back of his mind, he feared that he may be driven half-mad before he could find relief.

The sun had set hours earlier, but the many street lights and neon signs kept the area looking bright as daytime. There was a slew of clubs along the strip, and pounding techno music flooded out to the street as Luke passed. He ignored the crowds of people, partly because he didn't want to draw attention to himself, and partly because if he didn't focus on walking, he might topple over. He didn't even have the energy to fear his decision to return to his usual territory. The rationale from the day before was still in there somewhere, still shouting at him to turn back while he could, but it was nearly drowned out by the chaos in his ears, in his mind. Now all he had was an agonizing need for AB; never had he craved something so badly. He deliriously wondered if he wouldn't be willing to sever one of his own limbs to get the stuff. Now if only he could find it.

Building, building, building. They all looked the same. They passed like yellow dashes on the road, whirring by in a blur of color with no clear definition or outline. Somewhere... Somewhere nearby, someone was holding. He could feel it. It had to be close, close enough for him to get to it before the clock ran out. Before he collapsed. Before he ceased to breathe.

Then, like the arms of God embracing him, Luke's eyes landed on a familiar face outside of Reuben's Diner. Pure mercy. Or pity. He didn't care. There were so many other people he could have run into in front of that place, so many he did not want to meet; but it was Shark, the friend he hadn't even seen in months, who greeted him with a perplexed and disturbed look. Luke tried to speak, tried to beg his friend for help, but his voice refused. Then his legs were giving out beneath him, and it was an entirely new set of arms holding him up. Through the haze, he barely heard Shark's panicked questions. _What's wrong with you? What did you do? Jesus, Luke, you're gonna get us both killed._

None of that mattered right now. He held out his arm. His scarred arm, where a needle had pierced him time and time again. It wasn't the only way--he'd taken the stuff in so many forms. But this was fast, potent, brutal. He couldn't puke it back up if it was shot straight into his blood stream.

Another lapse in time. They were in an alleyway now, behind the diner. It stank like old french fries and rotting vegetables. He'd been tied off above the elbow. Luke was nearly limp against Shark's body, arm half raised as his friend searched for a vein, fumbling with the needle with shaking hands. When Shark couldn't hold him up anymore, Luke slumped over, face pressed into the dirty alleyway ground. It had a distinct, memorable flavor: gasoline and filth.

"Shit, boy," Shark breathed, still struggling with the syringe. He shifted his knees so that he could pin Luke's arm into place. "Come on, don't wiggle around."

There was a prick, then a familiar burn. Not like that morning--this wasn't lava. This was so hot it was cold, and when Shark ripped the rubber tie away, it washed over him like a wave, hit him all at once. What had been pure agony almost immediately morphed into pleasure so intense he would have vomited again had his stomach not been empty. His body writhed in Shark's arms as the drug was reintroduced to his system; firm hands held him up, kept him steady so that he didn't bite off his tongue. Shark had done this way too many times.

"FUCK!" Luke screamed when his mouth worked again. He opened his eyes and didn't even need a mirror to know they were fully dilated; even light trickling out from the dirty window above them burned, and he inhaled sharply, pressing his palms against them. The rush was always intense, but after being deprived of it for so long, it hit twice as hard.

"Shit, man," Shark said, pushing away from Luke and lighting a cigarette. "What the hell you thinkin'?"

Even though he could move his mouth again, the rest of his body took a while to adjust. Luke rocked on the ground as he waited to regain control of his muscles, his fingers, his toes. It was all coming back, little by little, and the torment from before was becoming a fuzzy memory.

"...Fuck," Luke whispered again, but this time the word had a whole new meaning.

"Damn straight. That's the good stuff, too. Not that you deserve it."

They sat like that in the alley for a bit while Luke gasped and panted like a drowning victim brought to shore. His fingers dug into the asphalt, but now it was to ground himself, rather than to distract himself from the pain. There was no describing the way AB made him feel; he could just lie there for hours if he were allowed it. But after a while, Luke managed to pick himself up from the ground, weaving on shaky legs as he brushed himself off. "...You..."

That was all he said, but Shark nodded. "It's cool, baby. We look out for each other, eh?"

"...I'm hungry.”

"Come on," Shark gestured. "Guy in there? Marvin or whatev, he don't care if you use the kitchen. You can clean up in the sink, too--cause boy, you smell like shit."

Luke silently followed Shark inside, past a heap of garbage waiting to be taken out, into a sketchy looking kitchen where two people were cooking without gloves or hair nets. Over in the corner, a guy was half washing some stained dishes.

"Use that one," Shark said, referring to a large, empty sink. Luke didn't need to be told twice. He was dying for a shower and this was close enough. There was only dish soap, but it was better than no soap at all, and Luke poured a large amount of it into his palm. Hard enough to turn his skin red, Luke scrubbed the residue of his withdrawal from his body. He wanted no memory of that experience. No hint that it had ever happened. When he was clean, Luke noticed that Shark had made him a plate of leftovers from unfinished orders, and he assaulted it before he could show any appreciation for the gesture. Luke was absolutely starving, and now that he could keep it down, there was no stopping him.

An hour passed. Luke's belly was full, and his skin was no longer crawling. The cool night air felt so good, and he sucked it in like he wouldn't get another chance. This sense of calm was almost enough to convince Luke he'd made it through the worst of it; unfortunately, now that he could breathe, the reality of the situation was starting to sink in. Coming back had been a very bad idea. Of course, he hadn't really had much of a choice--the withdrawal was still fresh enough in his mind to remind him that he had been nuts for thinking he could make it without the stuff.

"I need a little more. Just a dose. Maybe two," he said, reaching over to snatch a cigarette from between Shark's lips and inhaling deeply.

“You think I just carry around a suitcase full of AB? That was my last one until Wednesday.”

“Whether it's from you or someone else, I just need it. I'll do whatever it takes to get it, but I gotta get it fast. Don't know how much time I got left.”

"Shit, man," Shark sighed, shaking his head. "I don't wanna see you dead, you idiot."

"That right?"

"What the fuck you think, bitch?" Shark snapped, incredulous. "You think I always fuck around with runaways who got drug lords chasin' after 'em? This ain't no goddamn charity."

He snatched back the cigarette and took a long drag that burned halfway through the white paper.

"Then tell me where to get it outside of the Underground. I can't get outta here alive without it."

Shark took another drag and released it in a heavy cloud of smoke. He didn't look at Luke, and the silence suggested there wouldn't be an answer this time. Not that anyone could blame him. If Shark got caught helping Luke escape, he'd be in as much shit as Luke already was.

"It's risky goin' out there right now."

Luke shrugged. "Shark, I gotta get outta here. We both kow Damien's been looking for me, so no doubt other people know, too."

Shark's eyes darkened and he nodded. "Yeah... Rumor's been goin' round."

A sick feeling settled in Luke's gut, and he scratched at his arms though they no longer itched. "Come on, man. Just an ounce or two to tide me over til I'm outta the city limits. Just tell me where to go. You don't even gotta come with."

"No," Shark replied. "No, I do gotta come with. Ain't no one givin' anything to your skinny white ass. You think these fuckin' pasty cokeheads know how to get Angel Blood? Fuck no, you need to talk to Los Diablos. You think they trust someone like you? Shit, you don't even speak Spanish, do you?

Luke stared at Shark breathing slowly and deliberately to stave off panic. Finding Shark had been pure luck. There was no telling whether or not he'd be able to find more AB on his own. It could take days, and Luke didn't have that much time.

Shark sighed, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with his foot. "Come on then." He pushed away from the wall and gestured toward the street. "But gotta hurry. I ain't gettin' my ass beat just cause you decided to be stupid."

Shark was rightfully upset, and Luke half-wondered what he'd done to deserve this help. Sure, there were certain loyalties developed in the Underground, but the general rule was to watch your own back. Of course, Shark had been around for years, almost as long as Luke could remember; maybe they were growing a little fond of one another. Feelings like that weren't necessary for survival, though, and neither of them ever brought it up.

Under the streetlights again, the chit-chatting ceased, and Shark led the way. Luke did his best to keep calm, to stop thinking about the eyes of the city, little lapdogs in suits. Once they were in front of the diner, Luke was shocked to see how far he'd actually walked. Amazing how being half out of his mind could take away so many hours. All that time stuck in his head had been like a dream. It was a miracle he'd found the right place, and in one piece. "You ever come off that shit before?" Luke murmured, like an afterthought.

Shark shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. Don't remember. Not something I usually have to worry about, you know?"

Shark was comfortable where he was; but then, Shark was good at playing by the twisted little rules. He dodged the system, blended in with the background--a total pro. And he didn't have someone like Damien looking after him. “Nothing special,” the man had called him once. Damien probably didn't realize how much of a compliment that was.

"We're goin' down a buncha alleyways, got it? You gonna follow me, and don't talk. I'll do the talking. And shit can you put on a sweat shirt or something? That fuckin' hair of yours, it's like a goddamn flare gun."

Luke reached up and pulled his hair back, not that it did much good. He'd have to dye it eventually, anything to help him blend in. But he didn't exactly have the time right now.

"There's these guys, see? Real suspicious. Gotta keep your mouth shut and--"

Shark stopped mid-sentence and Luke looked up. For a minute, his brain froze, refusing to tell him what he was seeing like that would somehow protect him.

Shark put a hand on Luke's chest.

"Run, kid."

Luke spun around to make a break for it, but there were several cars closing in around them. All black, dark windows. Luke didn't have to see inside to know who it was. He backed away from Shark, spotting an opening near the diner entrance, but before he could slip out, a car flew in front of him, blocking him. The door flew open, and a greasy, stocky sleaze stepped out, sunglasses at night and everything.

"Yo, Dag," Shark called. "Bringing back the 80s?"

There was a cool grin on his face that didn't reach his eyes. There, Luke could only see nervousness and justifiable fear. Shark didn't try to run. Neither did Luke, now. He stood a few feet away from Dag, frozen in his spot like he was trying to blend in with the scenery. Dag didn't waste any time. He ignored Shark and went straight for Luke, serious as a rattle snake. "The fuck you think you're doing, you little bastard?" he snarled.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Luke shouted as if he could do anything to stop the man.

"Both of you, in the fucking car. NOW!" Straight to the point--there was no playing around. This was going to be a quick conversation, but like hell was Luke going to make it easy for the guy. Shark, on the other hand, wasn't up for fighting. He was already halfway in the vehicle when Luke spoke again.

"Leave this guy alone. What the fuck you want with him? He ain't runnin'!"

"Shut up!" Dag grabbed Luke by the arm and jerked him forward like he was a child. "Get in the mother fuckin' car before I knock you the fuck out."

Luke tugged once but didn't fight the grip. It was painful enough when he just stood there, and he suspected there would be bruises after Dag let go.

"Fuck your mother," he offered, helpfully.

"Ain't my mother needs to worry about being fucked," Dag said. "Now get in the fuckin' car before I beat your ass so bad, Damien won't have no choice but to kill you. I swear to god I will break your fuckin' ribs, Luke. Don't you fuckin' test me."

A sneer rose on Luke's face, and some more pretty words were about to spill from his lips, when he was suddenly hit with a strange sensation. Someone was watching him. Given the circumstances, it was a little odd that he was more distracted by that feeling than he was the fact that he was about to piss his pants in fear. It was like a bolt of lightning straight to his chest, and he looked over instinctively.

“Shit.” There was no way. No fucking way. But there he stood--that guy from before, Adam.

Luke didn't know how the fuck the guy had spotted him out of all the people in the city, how they'd ended up in the exact same place twice. But as quick as he saw him, he realized that didn't matter. What mattered was that Adam had signed a death warrant the moment he let Luke stay with him. If Damien knew the guy would recognize Luke, it was all over. Enough said. He wasn't the sentimental sort, but there was no denying what the man had done for him.

"Fine, let's go," Luke murmured. Shark scrambled inside with barely enough time to shoot Luke a 'what the fuck' look. It wasn't like they were getting out of this anyway; Luke wasn't going to get that guy killed in the process. Loyalties and all. Maybe he was starting to hand those out too easily.

Dag was too busy puffing out his chest to notice Adam, thankfully, and a moment later they were in the car, speeding away. Luke didn't dare look back.

"You're gonna get it, you little bitch."

"Probably," Luke said. "But not from you."

Dag raised his hand sharply, rage in his eyes, but Luke met his gaze with that same stubborn defiance. He could practically taste how badly the man wanted to strike him, but he didn't turn away. They stared at one another for a few tense seconds, then the expression on Dag's face faltered and the hand withdrew. Without another word, Dag faced forward, bitterly. He knew better.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam is a jaded, cynical man, hardly living and perfectly content in his misery, until an act of kindness drags him into a twisted world that will change his life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter! I apologize for the long pause between updates. You don't know how badly I wanted to just finish this chapter and get it out there. Unfortunately, I ran into some pretty unpleasant circumstances in November, when I'd intended to post it the first time. The yucky stuff lasted until the beginning of January, but now life is sort of busy in a more pleasant way.
> 
> I felt bad because the first draft of this chapter was significantly shorter than the other three and I'd already made you guys wait so long. I had to cut out three different scenes that just weren't working for me. Then I finally pinpointed what I wanted, and I completely rewrote it. Now it's the longest chapter by far, lmao.
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry for making you wait, but thank you so much to those of you who stuck with me anyway! This chapter may really decide who stays and who goes at this point. The mood and theme are much more apparent here, and all of my warnings are starting to come into play. Either way, I hope you guys like it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Luke jerked his arm out of Dag's grip as he was guided less than gently through the front entrance of The Warehouse; though he tried to keep at least a foot of distance between them, it wasn't like he could get far with the wall to wall bodies of people frying and rolling, dancing to a chaotic beat that was more rage than music. Immediately they were sucked into the blurred mass, and Dag grabbed Luke's bicep twice as hard, possibly because he didn't want to lose him in the crowd, though that wasn't why he was squeezing so tightly. The transition from outside to inside was shocking to the system--a biting cold obliterated by thick heat. It may have been a pleasant change if it weren't for the smell of the place: body odor, sex, various fluids. Things that would have made Luke gag years ago, before he'd grown accustomed to it. 

When he jerked away a second time, Dag grabbed him by the hair and dragged him through the crowd in retaliation; Luke hissed in pain and shouted a few choice phrases, but Dag ignored him, shoving people out of the way as they wove through the writhing mass of bodies; the druggies around them twisted frantically, limbs spasming more like a seizure than a dance, and Luke crashed into them as he stumbled behind Dag. He was covered in sweat by the time they finally reached the back of the room, and Luke tripped over his own feet trying to get away from the crowd. Releasing his hair, Dag shoved Luke forward in the direction of a dark hallway where the wooden floor melted into cement. Shadows hid many of the people who lingered there, but Luke could still make out figures in the dark--people frying on dirty mattresses that lined the wall, most of them half-dressed and prone, being fondled or fucked by others more conscious than they. Luke didn't know any of their names, but he recognized several of them to be around his age. He also recognized the expression on many of their faces, though it had been a long while since he'd worn it on his own.

Dag's hands at his back forced Luke to look away, to face the hallway and start walking again. He shrugged Dag off and took a few steps forward, as if he actually wanted to reach their destination. More than anything, he just wanted to stop being touched. The further away from the main room they got, the less Luke's ears felt like they were going to erupt--but they were still ringing, and his skin still twitched, remembering the feeling of so many bodies against him. It was lucky as hell that he'd had a fix before they came here or he'd probably be upchucking his internal organs by now. Straight ahead, a man with stringy, blond hair stood in front of a steel door, appraising he and Dag from afar. As they got closer, Luke could see sores on his face and cracks in his lips--the complexion of someone too low on the totem poll to get the good stuff. The man leered at Luke, grinning wide enough to show two rotting teeth in the front.

“You get lost, little boy?” He laughed, and Luke cringed, looking away from him, but not quickly enough to miss the lewd way his tongue waggled in Luke's direction. Dag elbowed the man and gestured to the sealed entrance.

“Keep your fucking dick in your pants and open the goddamn door. You know why we're here.”

His expression both reluctant and obstinate, the man finally stepped back and unlatched the door, letting it creak open wide enough to reveal two more men waiting on the other side. Up until that moment, Luke had distantly entertained the idea of running again. After all, Dag was just one man; if Luke were to catch him off guard, he might get enough of a head start. The goons from earlier were gone, off with Shark, god knew where, though Luke was too caught up in his own fear to dwell on the possibilities; he'd think about it later, if he didn't have brain damage by then. At the moment it had meant there were less people to stop him should he make a break for it, but he'd waited too long. They weren't alone anymore, and fleeing now would be suicide.

Immediately, the warmth of the club was ripped away and a sharp cold stabbed at him from every direction. He wasn't wearing nearly enough clothing, and the wind was more than happy to punish him for that fact. There were several suit-clad people huddled around like they were in the middle of a powwow--only with more weaponry--and another small group, more casually dressed, was crowded around the back. It reminded Luke of a private show, everyone waiting patiently for the main event, though he got the feeling that something had been happening here just a moment earlier. As Luke and Dag stepped forward, the people parted to let them through, out into the night where the scream of music coming from The Warehouse could just barely be heard. They were boxed in by brick walls with the exception of the barrier ahead of them, which was made of wood and barbed fencing. The space had once been an alleyway, but now it was closed off to create a sort of roofless room. The walls were high, lined with crates and boxes stacked in small clusters. Among the piles, a few chairs were sandwiched in, though most of them were currently empty. The asphalt crunched under Luke and Dag's shoes, and eyes followed them to the front, solemn and intent as if they were witnessing a man heading to his execution.

The last of the bystanders stepped aside, and there, before his adoring public, was Damien--dark hair to his shoulders, steel gray eyes that hardly blinked, lips that seemed permanently curled into a sneer. From his suit to his shoes, he was far better dressed than anyone around him, with rings on his fingers that served no purpose but to flaunt his status, and precious gems that lined the cuffs of his sleeves. He was the only one sitting, perched like he was on a throne, and his presence demanded the attention of everyone in the room. Dag shoved Luke toward him, and Damien watched, silently. He didn't have to make a sound--it was all there in his expression; even without speaking, Damien mocked him. But in those steady eyes that mockery became something more dangerous, a dark promise that negated pride. Immediately, Luke averted his gaze, hating himself for being unable to hide his fear. 

Damien's people stood back in anticipation of what was to come, still and unnaturally silent. It was either a hush that had fallen over the others present, or it was merely the sound of Luke's own heartbeat in his ears drowning out any noise beside it. He crossed his arms over his chest as he fought not to buckle under Damien's gaze, the only gaze that he could feel now. It bore into him, tightening around him with every exhale like a python with its prey. In the silence, Luke was allowed to fill in what was to come with his own vivid imagination; there was no shortage of gruesome possibilities to keep his mind busy. Damien wasn't speaking, but he had already said a million things, already nearly brought Luke to tears. Luke was certain he was going to vomit when finally the silence was broken by Damien's soft laughter, a mirthless sound in the back of his throat. 

“Ah, it certainly is lovely to see you again,” the man drawled. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Luke's arms unfolded, and his fingers twitched at his side as he fixed his gaze on Damien's polished shoes. In his seat, Damien shifted, thrumming his fingers along the edge of the chair arm. His posture was deceptively relaxed, not at all matching the warning in his tone. “I mean, I was _just certain_ that by now you'd be off in paradise, living the high life.”

The sound of shuffling to either side of him reminded Luke of the dozens of lemmings all around, waiting for Damien's orders. As if Damien weren't able to handle Luke on his own. It was for show, he surmised, to remind Luke of how much more powerful Damien was, of how stupid it was for Luke to think he could ever run far enough to escape Damien's reach.

“You make me sad, you know,” Damien continued. “Why would you want to leave when you knew I'd be so lonely without you?” It was a dangerous question with no right answer, but there was an underlying demand for a response nonetheless.

Luke didn't move. Here was the bait, dangling before him, but he couldn't see what trap lay beyond it. All he knew was that Damien would be angry whether he took it or not, and Luke, having never quite been in this situation before, wasn't sure which direction to go. With every uncomfortable moment that passed, Luke's heart raced faster. 

Then Damien stood, sending tension through Luke's body like he'd never felt before. The urge to run washed over him, but fear and underlying survival skills kept him cemented to the ground. With slow, steady steps, Damien closed the space between them so that they were painfully close. Luke kept his gaze to the ground, refusing to look at him.

"Oh Luke," Damien said softly, reaching up to run fingers through Luke's hair. Luke flinched at the touch but didn't pull away. Damien leaned down to breathe against his neck. "Why do you take such joy in angering me? Does it give you a thrill, toying with your own mortality?"

Luke shuddered, eyes closed tight, burning with unshed tears. The hand slid from Luke's hair to his face, stroking his cheek in a way that would have been loving from anyone else. Damien tsk'ed and shook his head. "You should know by now that I don't respond well to having my _feelings hurt_."

He grabbed Luke's chin and forced him to look at him. In such close proximity, there was no hiding his fright, and at the moment, that was the last thing on Luke's mind. But just as quickly, Damien released him, sighing and strolling back to his seat. "I don't imagine you have some sort of grand explanation for your actions. Kidnapped by Russian spies? Overcome by sudden amnesia?"

He smiled, the kind that was all teeth, and sat again, fingers thrumming along the edge of the chair with more vigor. One fist propped up his chin and he stared at Luke.

“Aw, come now. You usually have such scintillating insights. Why so quiet this time?”

He smiled, expectantly, but there was a flicker of rage building in his eyes, impatience that had Luke even more on edge. Damien's demeanor was quickly growing darker: there was that telltale raise of his brow, that steady tap of his foot, the subtle grinding of his teeth. All of it implied Damien's next move. All of it promised pain.

Something inside of Luke finally snapped.

"What the fuck do you want me to say?" he nearly shouted. “What can I possibly do to make you fucking happy?” Time stopped. Luke kept his head down, looking away like it was nothing, but the crack in his voice marred his bravado. Damien wasn't tapping anymore, and the stiffness in the air told Luke that he'd made a mistake.

“Well, for starters,” Damien cooed. “You could tell me why I shouldn't remove your windpipe right here and now, before you have a chance to ask me anymore stupid questions.”

Luke swallowed, rolling his shoulders to hide the fact that he was shaking. He'd pissed Damien off plenty of times, but this was the first time he'd committed an offense punishable by death. Damien wasn't one to waste resources, which meant that he wasn't as quick to snuff out any deviants among his brood; however, the fine balance in Luke's case hung heavily above them--the fact that he was so valuable to Damien, one of the man's favorites--which meant he also made Damien look bad by booking it. But regardless of Damien's suggestion, Luke had been under his care long enough to know quite well that begging wouldn't change a damn thing, even though Damien was clearly getting off on watching him cower. Normally Luke wouldn't hold back from telling Damien what he thought, but he was just bright enough to know that he wouldn't be getting a backhand to the mouth this time. 

“ _Luke_...” It was said like a curse, low in the throat, and Luke looked up at Damien on reflex. Their eyes met, and a spark of fear shot down Luke's spine. A voice in the back of his mind screamed for him to look away, but he couldn't move. Suddenly he was very aware of the many eyes on him, the cold terror of being caught in a fatal spotlight. It was a good thing he'd completely lost control over his legs; if Luke ran now, it would be the last thing he ever did. 

Damien was smiling at him again, and his fingers continued to tap a steady rhythm on the arm rest. “You've been a bad, bad boy, Luke.” The smell of atmosphere, like right before it rained, filled the space around them. “Such a shame.”

Then the air abruptly shifted, growing heavy with electricity, and it was Luke's only warning before Damien's eyes completely dilated, drawing Luke into two, black chasms. Like a bolt of lightning, pain Luke had never experienced before tore through his body. The fire rushed through his veins and ripped down his spine, causing his knees to buckle before he could even make a sound. A scream rose in his throat as he hit the ground, but Luke's chest muscles twisted too tightly to allow the breath to escape. His fingers clawed at his neck, frantic, scraping nails across a force that wasn't there.

“Such a foolish child,” Damien snickered, eyes locked on Luke. “All these years... I would have thought that youthful stupidity would have been beaten out of you by now.”

Luke collapsed onto his side, twisting on the ground. The burn in his lungs was quickly growing unbearable, and tears that should have been hot ran cold against his overly heated skin. The vice around his rib cage grew tighter, then shattered, and Luke sucked in a breath of air so sharply it was painful. He rolled onto his elbows, coughing violently, until speckles of blood painted the ground beneath him. He inhaled quickly like he may not get another chance and was rewarded with another bout of coughing. The burn hadn't left him completely, but it was different now. Unlike before, this sensation wasn't at all unfamiliar; he could _feel_ Damien inside of him, could taste the man's very being running through him, mingling with his own blood. Another scream rose, but Luke choked it back.

“Why are you resisting me?” Damien asked, softly. “What are you trying to prove? Come on, let me hear that pretty voice.”

It was almost impossible to understand him now, and Luke thought his eardrums might rupture. Each breath brought a pain sharper than the one before, and Luke's mouth hung open, no more than a whimper escaping. He wasn't sure if it was stubbornness or just a complete lack of control over his body, but he was otherwise silent--just his ragged desperate breathing. But Damien, of course, had never had much patience. In a grandiose manner, he held out his hand like he was stroking Luke's hair from a distance, and a build up of energy buzzed around Luke's head. Then, like a million tiny pins and needles, that energy shot straight through him, and the battle was lost. Luke arched off the ground and screamed like he was being murdered; his entire body felt like it was being ripped to pieces; even his mind wasn't his own and he fought impotently against Damien's presence within him, against the feeling of being completely consumed by the man.

“Silly, silly boy...” Damien leaned back again, like he'd grown bored, and suddenly the pain rushed out of Luke like the plug on a tub had been pulled. He completely collapsed and was overtaken by sobs as he lay exhausted on the ground. Again, the quiet of the alley made the sound of his agonized gasps seem thunderous, but Luke was too delirious to even notice it. The moment of rest, however, was fleeting, and out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw Damien motion to two men on the right, a signal he'd seen many times before. In his fear, Luke hadn't recognized the pair in the crowd, but he wasn't surprised to see them. Spike and Vin, or so he called them--he'd never actually heard the first man's name, but he felt the nickname suited him, given his particular... craft. Luke didn't look at their faces, certain all he'd find there was sadistic glee, but averting his eyes wouldn't protect him. 

The crunch of boots on either side of him sent shudders through Luke's body. He tried to stand, but Vin shoved him down again with a foot to the lower back. It was Spike's hand he felt in his hair, and his head was jerked back hard enough to cause the corners of his vision to spark. “Shit,” Luke finally whimpered through gritted teeth, and then the conversation was over. Spike twisted his grip in Luke's hair, making him arch in pain, and just as quickly Vin's boot smashed into Luke's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Without pause, Spike shoved him toward Vin, and another kick came from the side, this one connecting with Luke's jaw and sending shock waves through his cheekbone. He grunted in pain, holding his arm up as if he could shield himself from the assault, but yet another boot landed itself in the middle of his back, then another, and another. For a few, terrifying moments, Luke couldn't breathe, but with the first inhale, white agony washed over him, rendering his body useless as his muscles seemed to melt away.

Vin grabbed Luke by the collar and jerked him up so that he was on his knees. He kept his head down and his arms up, but Luke was unable to block the fist that nearly knocked him onto his back. The only thing stopping him from hitting the ground was Vin's grip on the front of his shirt, but the second hit was more powerful, and the material beneath Vin's fingers ripped away. Luke's hands flew out to catch himself, giving Vin an even better opening, which he took, hitting Luke so hard that Luke could hear the bones in the man's hand snap. 

Up until that moment, the only sounds to be heard were Luke's pained cries and the heavy breathing of the men assaulting him. Even if he'd thought begging would do him any good, Luke wasn't able to form the words--his lips bloody, tongue swollen and useless in his mouth. But when he was on the edge of consciousness, he was overcome by the first twinge of fear that these men may in fact kill him. With every strike, the life was draining out of him.

“St...” he began but was cut off by another bout of coughing. His lungs felt full of liquid, and he struggled to inhale. “Stop!” he tried again, like his pleas held any weight at all, but a boot to his chest snuffed out the last of his protests. Spike stood over him, eyes ablaze with a lust for blood. When he came down on Luke again, it was twice as hard, and his heel smashed into Luke's side, snapping more than just a rib. Deep within, something was breaking. Something that hadn't been held together too well to begin with.

There was a sound like a gunshot, and for a moment, Luke's world slowed to a stop. Once more, his heart beat dominated the noise around him, and his mind was startlingly clear like it hadn't been in ages. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a sense of peace. Unfortunately, the feeling didn't last. In its place, a sharp, tingling sensation rushed over him, up and down his arms and under his skin. His stomach clenched, and he tasted copper on the back of his tongue, like he used to when he was a child. The taste always reminded him of fear.

Then Luke was back. What had felt like minutes was over in seconds, and above him, Spike was raising his heel a second time. But before he could deliver another blow, Luke whipped around and held his arm out straight, palm open like he was waving good bye to Spike--and he may as well have been, as the gesture sent the man flying all the way across the alley. Spike hit the wall with a thud, eyes wide, mouth open with aborted words still dangling from his lips.

Then all hell broke loose.

People were shouting, but Luke couldn't understand what they were saying. All that mattered was that Spike was down, and Luke trained his gaze on his second enemy as people scattered, narrowing the space around them. The look on Vin's face made it clear that he'd been convinced Luke wasn't stupid enough to fight back, and his surprise as a result meant his reaction was immediately and unnecessarily brutal: a concentrated attack on Luke's spinal column that felt like it was ripping it in two. Luke had no chance to fight back before the pain ripped through him, and he arched off the ground, screaming in agony. But that tingle was still coursing through him, and from the corner, several crates lifted and flew in Vin's direction at full speed. Luke heard, rather than saw, at least one of the objects hit their mark, and Vin was easily knocked off his feet. The grip on Luke's spine vanished, and he was able to roll onto his side. Vin was struggling to stand, but already another set of crates was rising, locked onto the same target.

The commotion around them grew as people hurried to get out of the crossfire. The entire thing happened very quickly, but it was the resulting chaos that was giving Luke a fighting chance. Once Vin was occupied, Luke had no time to think--he'd made his choice and now he had to move. Ignoring the pain or the way his ankle refused to support his weight, Luke scrambled to his feet with the back door in sight. But that sight was almost immediately blocked by the now disheveled Spike. He sneered at Luke, a thin trail of crimson trickling from his nose. “You little piece of shit.” He held out his own hand and sent Luke skidding back until he crashed into brick. Luke tried to block himself, but he was too slow, and the sensation of metal piercing flesh overcame him at both shoulders and the center of his chest.

With all the strength he could muster, Luke redirected the crates at Spike and hurled them in the man's direction. Unfortunately, the drugs, exhaustion, and physical trauma had weakened him significantly: the aim was off, and every single shot was a miss. But Luke didn't stop, and this time there were enough crates in the air to hit more than just the two people beating him.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?” Damien's voice cut through the air like a knife, and everything froze. It wasn't that Luke had forgotten his presence, it was just that Damien had remained so silent the entire time, Luke had somehow convinced himself that he might actually have a chance to get out of this. Clearly he'd been hit in the head too many times. Luke's eyes fixated on Damien, and Vin used the opportunity to bring Luke to his knees with a flick of his wrist. The remaining crates shattered in mid air, and Luke flinched as he listened to the wooden pieces crash to the ground. Spike grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged Luke forward. This time, he was met with no resistance. Luke refused to look at Damien as he cowered before the man, breathing heavily as blood dripped from too many places to count. 

“Are you asking me to kill you?” Damien demanded. “Is that what you want? You know you don't have to try so hard. All you have to do is say the word, and I'll put an end to this once and for all.”

Luke gritted his teeth, and once again tears began to build in his eyes and drip down onto his fingers that were digging into the ground. Spike's hand suddenly slid through Luke's hair, almost affectionately, and Luke jerked away, but didn't otherwise retaliate. The fingers immediately tightened, preventing him from looking down, and Spike picked up where Vin had left off, striking Luke viciously across the face. There was no fighting back this time. When Spike released him, Luke curled into a ball and absorbed blow after blow without resisting. A kick to the jaw, a fist in his ribs. Like some sort of macabre dance, they pounded Luke into the ground until he couldn't cry out anymore. His vision went teasingly black, but Luke remained fully conscious the entire time. His body had reached a brink of pain that was so severe it had looped around to leave him cold and numb. His entire being threatened to surrender, and still, the attacks didn't stop.

Then, “Don't kill him.” The words were spoken softly and casually, like one might comment on a game of golf--but the beating immediately ceased. The men backed away, leaving Luke trembling and panting, belly down on the asphalt.

Slowly, Damien uncrossed his legs and rose, sauntering over with cool and deliberate steps. At Luke's side, he knelt, and slid his own fingers into Luke's hair. Shudders danced through Luke's body, and nerves he thought had died off were sparked anew at their proximity. With a firm, steady grip, Damien jerked Luke's head back and leaned down close so that Luke could feel his hot breath on his ear.

“Did you really think you could get away from me?”

Luke gritted his teeth, the rage inside of him coming to a boil that was physically painful. He was exactly as Damien wanted him: broken and pathetic, sorry that he had ever been stupid enough to cross him, unlikely to ever make the same mistake again. Damien released him then and Luke collapsed back onto the ground. He wiped his hand on the back of Luke's shirt and stood. “Get him out of here.”

With that, Damien turned to the Warehouse again and headed back inside without a second glance. Slowly, the crowd followed his lead, filtering out in a small stream until there were only a few people left.

“You're lucky,” Spike said, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “I would have slit your insolent little throat.”

He turned Luke's head to the side and ran his tongue over a trickle of blood that had spilled from the corner of Luke's mouth. Luke pulled away, weaker than he would have liked. “Go to hell,” he rasped more than snarled. Spike stood again and laughed.

“Get up, idiot. We're leaving.”

And then Luke was on his feet, barely able to stand, held up by Damien's men on either side of him. When they passed through the Warehouse again, just like when they'd walked in, no one seemed to notice them.

 

***

 

Luke let the door slam shut on its own and stood at the entrance for a long moment, listening to the sound of other life in the house. It was quiet for a Sunday night, but he could hear the hundred-year-old television set down the hall, polluting the air with the shrill sound of Jerry Springer. With his right hand, Luke wiped his mouth and barely glanced at the smear of blood streaked across it; the other hand he couldn't lift very high, and he wondered if his shoulder had been dislocated. There was no telling how much damage he had inside, but right now he focused only on the pains that the adrenaline rushing through his body didn't dull.

Kicking off his shoes, Luke headed for the kitchen. One of his housemates was sitting at the table reading a magazine when he came in, and Luke walked by without acknowledging him.

"You want a vicodin?" the other boy called, without looking up from his magazine. He didn't have to. By now, word would have spread that Luke was back, and there'd be little speculation on what he'd look like after his “welcome home” party.

Luke faced the sink and turned the water up as hot as it would go, which wasn't too hot at the moment. The heater was the worst, especially in the cold months, and they were lucky to get lukewarm showers. When the water wasn't a few degrees below freezing, he grabbed a rag from the counter and got it wet, then used it to dab away at his face and hair where he could feel the blood starting to cake. It came off thick, completely staining the old towel, and Luke realized there was no way he was getting clean without a bath.

Silence passed between himself and his housemate, which clearly made the other uncomfortable, as he finally glanced over to get a look at the damage. “Holy shit man,” he said, twirling a piece of dry, overly-dyed hair around his index finger. "He actually hit you in the face? You musta really pissed him off." 

Luke opened the fridge and pulled out a half empty can of diet grape soda. He turned and spit blood in the sink before taking a sip. The taste was bitter, but it washed away the distinct copper flavor, at least a little. The freezer was empty, which meant his vodka was gone. 

"That's gonna bruise if you don't put ice on it, you know. Dude, if you look all busted up, it's gonna be forever before you can go back to work. Damien'll be pissed."

"Fuck off, Hunter," Luke finally said, the words flat with exhaustion and apathy. He tossed the now empty can in the sink and trudged off to the room at the end of the opposite hallway. It was one of three sleeping areas in the house, but with fourteen boys living together, it was far from his own private space. He could only hope everyone was out partying or taking clients. Luke didn't want to deal with anyone else.

From the kitchen, he could hear Hunter calling something after him, but he ignored it. The room was miraculously empty, and Luke wasted no time crossing it and flopping down on an old mattress in the corner. What he'd do for some vodka right then, but the others had probably drained the place dry in his absence. Gingerly, he touched his mouth again with a trembling hand. The bleeding had stopped mostly, but the pain was still there, aching and throbbing and reminding him of his crime. 

_Did you really think you could get away from me?_

Luke gritted his teeth by reflex and he hissed in pain at the pressure. He had never felt such seething hatred--never had he wanted that man dead more than he did now, and considering the many times he would have laughed to find Damien a corpse, that was really saying something. Had he been weaker, maybe he would have been thankful Damien had let him live at all. But he was sharp enough to know that this wasn't a mercy. Damien never did anything unless it directly benefited him.

For the next hour, Luke buried his face in his pillow, breathing slow and steady to avoid the ache in his ribs when he inhaled too quickly. He heard some of the other guys wandering around the house a few times, but fortunately none of them came inside; Luke could be alone with his thoughts and his increasing agony. The rush was wearing off, and now he was starting to discover just how messed up he really was. This was going to take forever to heal, and he had to wonder if there would be any permanent damage. The best thing he could do for himself right now was to get up and clean himself off, but he couldn't will himself to rise from the mattress. He felt like a ragdoll, only instead of stuffing, he was filled with a million, jagged shards of glass.

A sudden knock at the door made him jump, and Luke sighed, dramatically, barely lifting his head from his pillow. 

"Go away!" he shouted, but wasn't at all surprised when he was ignored. Despite his words, he glanced over to see who was coming into the room: Murray, a sleaze who specialized in adjustments and minor mending. His presence inspired another sigh, and Luke buried his face in his pillow again.

"Man, they were right--you do look like shit," Murray said, helpfully. 

Luke scoffed. "Hunter seriously called you?"

"No, actually, it was Shark."

Luke quickly sat up, but his body protested violently half way, and he sunk back into the mattress with a hiss of pain. "Ugh, fuck..." Busted body aside, Luke felt the first bit of positivity since he'd shown up. So Shark wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, huh? Not that that meant all was well. Trying not to let his feelings transfer to his face, Luke pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked back. "...He okay?"

Murray shrugged. "Depends on what you consider 'okay'." And that was the end of the conversation. Murray didn't give him time for more questions or even painkillers before he shoved him down and jerked his shoulder back into its socket. Luke's fingers tingled and he cringed, trying to breathe through the pain as Murray immediately adjusted his spine, even pushing his ribcage around just a bit. The man moved intuitively, finding every broken spot and setting it right. It hurt like hell, but Luke knew it sure beat internal bleeding or bones that healed incorrectly. That sort of thing happened all the time for those low enough on the totem pole. Damien didn't have any use for ugly, damaged toys, so he usually took care of any medical services needed to prevent his boys from marring their outward appearance. But Damien was teaching Luke a lesson.

When they were done, Luke was sweating and panting from the pain. He lay still for a long while, trying to think about anything other than how much he was hurting. It would get better, he knew that. But first it would get a lot worse.

“So how ya feel?” Murray finally asked, leaning against the wall near the door. “All better?”

“Yeah, I think I could do some Tae Bo right now.”

“You sure got a way of getting your ass beat left and right. I mean, you got some balls, but you'd think by now you woulda learned.”

Luke rolled his eyes and didn't answer.

“What are you, some kinda masochist? Does it get you off every time he gives you a black eye?”

“Why are you still here?” Luke asked, still flat on his stomach and staring at the wall.

He could feel the intensity of Murray's gaze on him--that smirking face, those conniving eyes. There was a soft chuckle, then the sound of Murray walking over to the bed and sitting down. 

"I don't know what it is. I mean, your face all fucked up like that? But... somehow, it gets me harder than ever." He reached out and ran a few fingers through Luke's hair and down his arm. Luke immediately jerked away, slapping the man's hand back despite the twinge of pain caused by sudden movement. He was getting fucking sick of people grabbing his hair.

“Get the fuck outta here, asshole.” Luke finally pushed himself all the way up and did his best to ignore the stabs of pain from all sides. He climbed off the mattress and headed for the door.

"I didn't do that for free, you know,” Murray called after him.

Luke laughed, a short, abrupt sound, and he turned around. "Only business I'm doing right now is free dick removal. Fair trade? If you think so, you can stick it right here." He pointed to his open mouth, then snapped his teeth shut, before walking out of the room. 

"You owe me!" Murray called. Luke flipped him off without looking back and kept moving until he was safely hidden away in the bathroom. The noise of people coming and going was soon peppered with heavier foot steps that wandered down the hall and out the door. Luke sat in the darkness for a while and breathed.

After a moment, he flicked on the overhead light, which flickered for several minutes like a strobe light before showering the room with a milky, yellow glow. Directly in front of him was a tub straight out of a horror movie, half rusted and spotted with mystery stains, mold crawling up the side. Growing up, Luke had never questioned this sort of living, but when he was in Damien's favor, he was more often surrounded by a certain amount of luxury. Luke had come to find that the things he took as a given weren't really the standard at all. Now he cringed at the thought of using the old beast. He hardly ever washed up at the house, and it reminded him of being new again, one of Damien's unbroken boys, still in need of training and taming. 

Carefully as possible, Luke sat down on the edge of the tub and turned it on. The pipes screamed and moaned for a moment, then torrents of water gushed from the spout, initially a rusty red before filtering into a slightly tinted clear liquid. It would be red again in a minute anyway, so Luke stopped it up and began to undress. He still ached quite a bit, and he knew he should probably take Hunter up on that vicodin, but he just didn't want to deal with anyone. He wanted to be alone. He was so sick of the endless cycle that was his existence.

The bath was thankfully warmer than the sink water, but Luke didn't stay in long. He needed his sleep, and it was more important that he get cleaned off than risk passing out here and being harassed later. The shampoo wouldn't completely remove the red from Luke's hair, but it would fade eventually. At least his skin was easy to scrub clean, even if all he was doing was revealing dark blotches that would become black and blue welts. It just felt good to have the sticky substance off of him, one less reminder of one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Luke crawled out, pulling the plug and toweling off as the drain slurped down the bloody water behind him. He patted himself dry, avoiding any spots that were particularly painful before wringing out his hair as best as he could. His mind was still racing, trying to take him back to an hour ago when he'd come the closest to death that he'd ever been. Wasn't it enough that he'd lived through it? Was it so much to ask that he be able to put it out of his mind for now? All he wanted was a little peace, even if were just for a moment.

Luke was surprised when an image of that guy, Adam, popped into his head. That was certainly the only painless experience he'd had since fleeing, but it was odd to Luke that it kept coming back to him. There was nothing in particular that Luke felt toward the man other than a distant gratitude at his very stupid kindness. But now and then the guy had passed through his mind, making Luke feel funny, like he was forgetting something. That sense of failing to check an item off of a to-do-list. Luke stared at his reflection, trying to decipher it.

But seeing his swollen left eye, the redness all along his cheek, the gashes on his face, his cracked lips, puffy nose... he was quickly back to thinking about Damien. 

Like it wasn't even his own action, Luke punched the wall as hard as he could. His skin split along his knuckles, but with the sudden surge of adrenaline, he couldn't feel the pain. It would come later, of course, but that didn't matter. Come morning, he would be in agony; why not bring himself a little more?

His legs were shaking now to match his hands, and Luke struggled to stay steady. He pushed away from the sink and went back to the room, head down to avoid being accosted by any of his housemates. None of this mattered. None of it. Luke was only going through the motions anyway--why the hell should he care? Right now, the only thing he gave a shit about was sleeping. And it was a good thing, too, because a few minutes after hitting the mattress again, he was out.

 

***

 

There were easily millions of people in Wyrmwold Flats, and at the moment, Adam was watching a good couple hundred of them shuffling in every direction along the crowded sidewalks. It was late, but not too late for the bar hoppers and club kids who were huddled around the entrances of packed buildings or wandering from place to place in little intoxicated packs.

Adam tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. It felt weird being behind the wheel again after having his car in the shop for so long. Thank god for employment, though. He was getting a little tired of being forced to walk around in the monsoon.

The morning had started on a stressful note with bad dreams and achy joints. A friend had taken him to pick up his hunk of metal where the mechanics proceeded to rob him of nearly all of his funds, and then Jeremy had called to nag him about his birthday--what was he doing, where were they going? That was the last thing on Adam's mind right now with work drilling him into the ground and the stress of a potential visit to his hometown still looming over him. And now... Now, he was sitting in his car on the side of the street, cursing himself in the darkness and searching, scrutinizing the faces of everyone who had passed over the last twenty minutes.

For a while he'd just stared forward like he was still driving, like maybe he could convince himself that he wasn't doing what he was doing. But eventually he gave it up and allowed himself to ever so slowly glance to his left at the diner across the way from Hollywood Sinister. Again, the question had to be asked: why the fuck was he here? He should be home. He should be out of the goddamn traffic. But for whatever stupid reason, he was here.

Was it because he thought he’d see the kid again? What was it about him? Some drugged up boy with a sob story like everyone else? It was sad, sure, but that had never pulled Adam in before. This was bordering on obsession, and he didn't know why. Maybe he was on his way to becoming a serial killer or something, and he was subconsciously developing his M.O. Pathetic street kids, jailbait hooked on drugs, blond sex workers. This was two steps away from stalking and maybe three away from making his own flesh suit. 

On a conscious level, Adam wasn't even particularly interested in the kid. If anything, he was neutral, other than feeling sympathy toward him for what was no doubt a shitty situation. But at the same time, Adam couldn't shake the nagging feeling that had him swallowing his pride and pulling up to the curb in the first place. He couldn't name the emotion; it wasn't lust, and it certainly wasn't love. It wasn't even compassion. It was just... something. Feelings left over from dreams he couldn't remember. 

Across the street, people filtered in and out of the diner, oblivious to his presence. An old couple, some drunk business men, a family of immigrants still dressed in clothing that made them stand out in the city. On the corner, a couple of wasted young men who stumbled and wove as they walked. No teenage prostitutes. 

After a moment, Adam cursed at himself and started his vehicle again. There was nothing here. Nothing out of the ordinary. And Adam was a moron. Embarrassment welled up in his gut, and he quickly pulled away from the curb once more.


End file.
